


Fault Lines

by HastaLux, Mottlemoth



Series: Marmalade [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Anthea is a BAMF, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation (not between Myc and Greg), Greg Has A Twin, Greg's Ex is Still the Worst, Happy Ending, Jealousy, M/M, Marmalade is Helpful, Men Trying to Manage Their Own Emotions, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Protective Mycroft, Quick Alternating POV, Quite a Lot of People Behaving Badly, Sherlock's Drug Problems, Smut, Troubled Fraternal Relationships, Violence (not between Myc and Greg), Vulnerable Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 23:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 118,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Things are going well for Mycroft and Greg. Marmalade has moved in with Mycroft, albeit as a temporary foster, and Greg more or less has done the same. But a few people out there simply can't bear to see them happy... and don't mind going the extra mile to get in the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Welcome to book three!
> 
> A quick heads up, first: the course of true love never did run smooth. This story has an overall darker tone than the first two, and the boys will be working pretty hard for their happy ending. There are issues to deal with and certain people unwilling to play nice. Please make sure you've had a good look at the tags. 
> 
> Thanks for joining us again with Greg, Mycroft and Marmalade. We hope you enjoy the story.

_“...where a guilty verdict has been handed down. Key testimony given by witnesses and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade proved absolutely crucial, and though our legal experts tell us a challenge to the verdict is likely, the case is solid enough that the entire gang should be seeing prison bars for a long time. Overall it’s been quite the exciting trial, and our sources tell us there was even a small altercation in the courtroom following the verdict, but I’m sure London is sleeping soundly with these men off the streets. Now, onto the Pan-European Trade Conference. We’re expecting-”_

Mycroft clicks the news off with a grunt of disinterest as the topic shifts. “No more of that, thank you.” The trade conference is going to be a source of irritation well enough during his work hours, he isn’t planning to think it about at home.

He creeps back into his own kitchen, which has been thoroughly taken over by Gregory in expansive chef mode- Mycroft had been tossed out hours ago, except for occasional refills of his wine (accompanied by strategic kisses to the busy chef’s cheek) and retrievals of a very optimistic cat who keeps attempting to sneak bits of food when Greg isn’t looking.

“Brrp,” Marmalade says wisely from her position atop the dining table, where she can best keep track of whether Greg might have dropped anything. They’re “only” fostering her, for now- the rescue seems absolutely determined to think that she’s absolutely unadoptable, or at least the woman in charge of the paperwork is putting up a valiant last stand- but the amount of cat beds, toys, and other accoutrement that has suddenly flooded Mycroft’s home would indicate otherwise.

None of them are surprised that she is tremendously spoiled.

They were meant to be at the lake house this weekend, Marmalade in tow, only it turned out Mummy was having the bathrooms redone. _“Well how was I meant to know you planned to visit, Mikey. Honestly, it’s as though you don’t want me to meet this young man at all.”_

Still, they’d taken a long weekend anyway- three days more or less abed, with breaks for food, films, and fussing over Marmalade. And, with the promise of the pair of them staying inside, Anthea has even taken off to France for her own long weekend. Lord knows the woman can use a break, especially after her tear through the Transportation Ministry securing their cover positions and putting everyone there in a sufficient amount of fear about what would happen if they had another breach, alongside whatever else she’s done that has resulted in a bit of silence from the former Mrs. Lestrade and her ilk. Fortunately, after what seems to have been a vague attempt to out Mycroft at “work”, as far as he’s aware Karen hasn’t tripped any of Anthea’s additional precautions. And heavens know she has quite a lot of those.

It’s left them both rather relaxed, content in their safe tower where it feels as though the world cannot reach them. Greg had insisted on cooking dinner for their last night, and also refused to tell Mycroft what he’s making. “Almost ready, love? Can I set anything out for you?”

He creeps closer, caressing Greg’s lower back as he presses his lips to Greg’s temple. “Your photo was on the news again. Very handsome shot.”

 

*

 

"Almost there," Greg says with a grin, and turns his head fondly into the small kiss. "Shouldn't take much setting out... hope you're hungry."

He details the plates as he adds the last of the food to them, his eyes shining in hope of approval.

"Norfolk corn-fed chicken," he says, "with courgette, carrots and cherry tomatoes, and a side of sauteed baby spinach... I've made eton mess for dessert. It's just in the fridge."

There's a pleased trill from the table, as Marmalade voices her approval of tonight's menu. The chicken in particular has piqued her culinary interests, judging by the upright fan of her tail.

"I know, sweetheart," Greg says, with a fond glance. "I've got your bowl ready. Just let me finish Mycroft's."

It's Marmalade's special bowl - a delicate one, sized for her delicate face, with a happy orange fish printed on the bottom of it. There's currently a small portion of chicken put aside in it for her. In the last couple of weeks she's become one of the best-fed cats in London, and is picking up quite a taste for the high life.

"Should be glad they're not still showing my interview outside court," Greg says, smiling, as he tops up the two wine glasses on the side. "It's a shame they didn't get the bit where Danny Fenton threatened to kick my fucking head in. Added a real something to the sentencing. Where're we eating, gorgeous? In here? You'll have to shift her ladyship out of the way."

 

*

 

“Come here, darling. Gregory needs a bit of room and then you can have your dinner.” Mycroft scoops Marmalade off the table, holding her against his chest as she keeps her eyes on Gregory and the promise of chicken especially for her. “I know, you are very appreciative of his culinary skills.” She trills at him. “Yes, I think so too.”

Her weight has filled out since she’s been staying with them, her fur full and luxurious. Whenever food is involved she seems to gravitate more to Greg, as he tends to have more items of interest to her- particularly bacon- but Mycroft seems to be a more still sleeper, so she has so far favored his side of the bed, when there’s nothing interesting to watch overnight from one of their windows.

“Danny Fenton is going to get himself an increased sentence if he runs his mouth enough, I have no doubt. Men like that don’t change, they only dig their grave deeper.” Mycroft is glad he’d been restrained sufficiently not to attack Greg in the courtroom, though as far as he’d heard it was a near thing. If he’d managed it, Mycroft would have found a way to arrange a suitable accident to befall him in prison.

Not that he has the discretionary authority to pull it off at the moment. He’d been _behaving_ for the past few weeks, everything done with speed and efficiency, and Edwin is still withholding his _extracurricular_ powers. Just to prove he can, probably. Mycroft _could_ bypass him, but that would involve either a great deal of track-covering or an uncomfortable amount of political wrangling, neither of which appeals to him at the moment.

Fortunately, in the intervening weeks Sherlock has only slipped the minders Mycroft has put on him- with Sherlock’s trust fund as the funding source- twice. Bored and retired security agents are blessedly difficult to shake.

Sherlock still won’t take Mycroft’s calls.

“We could do dessert with a movie, if you like? Your pick, since you cooked.”

 

*

 

Greg moves the plates over to the table with no small amount of domestic pride, laying them out neatly and putting the vegetable dish between them. He's got to admit he's been eating better since nights with Mycroft have become the norm. At first he kept an eye on healthy recipes for Mycroft's interests, but he's benefitting from it too.

"Dessert with a movie sounds great," he says, with a smile. "I'll have a think while we eat..."

He reaches for the wine bottle, adding it to the table.

"Danny Fenton's problem is he doesn't realise he's part of a system. Get the feeling he grew up thinking his dad is the only law that applies London. Everything's personal for him. He doesn't see there's a team working within the structure of the law - he just sees me."

He scoops Marmalade's dish at last from the side, brings it over to Mycroft, and with a broad smile feeds Marmalade a first little piece from his fingers.

She scarfs it down, trying to purr and eat at once. It produces a sort of breathy bubbling sound.

"But," Greg says, glancing fondly at his lover, "Danny Fenton's dealt with now, and the rest of them too. Trial's over. The news'll get bored of showing people my face soon, and we can settle back to normal life."

 

*

 

“I’m sure he will enjoy taking every little slight personally… in prison.”

Mycroft sets Marmalade up on the dining chair that has quickly become “hers”, allocating another sliver of chicken.

“I rather like seeing your face on the news, beautiful. It’s a nice surprise whenever it happens.”

He smiles back, quite openly proud of Gregory. He’d taken a case that could have so easily fallen apart and gotten news articles mentioning how he, personally, brought it back together for the prosecution, despite “flaws in evidentiary handling” and despite, as Mycroft well knows, at least one team member who has only a passing familiarity with competence.

“I expect your team will be grateful to get free of the trial and back to their regular workload.”

Mycroft knows he is personally extremely glad Gregory hasn’t been working so late, even though he has himself been kept at the office several time well past reasonable hours. Coming home to Gregory already tucked in his bed is far superior than tucking himself into his office couch, especially when every single set of sheets he owns highlights Greg’s lovely hair fabulously.

“Oh- for the trade conference reception, would you like a new suit?”

 

*

 

As they take their seats, and Greg reaches for his wine glass, he blinks at the offer of a suit.

Realisation dawns.

"Oh - god, the reception... that's coming up, isn't it?" It's been on his radar for weeks, but nothing seemed all that close until the trial ended. Now it's all reappeared again, and it's a lot closer than he thinks.

The trade conference reception will be his first social event as Mycroft's partner. It feels like a coming out, of sorts - though Greg hasn't a clue what to expect. He can guess that some incredibly fancy people will be attending. He's not completely alien to the idea of formal parties. There's been a tiny amount of shmoozing at police functions, but probably not on the same level as Mycroft usually deals with.

Taking a sip of wine, and giving Mycroft a fondly nervous smile, Greg says,

"S'your world, darlin'. You know what'll be best. If a new suit will help me look the part with you, that's fine. I don't want to show you up."

 

*

 

“Gregory, darling, your mere presence is going to ‘show me up.’ I assure you I do not mind in the least.”

Mycroft puts down the urge to dress up Greg in as arm candy of an ensemble as he can afford- he’s not entirely sure Gregory would like it, for one thing, and he would like Greg to enjoy whatever he’s wearing.

“I’ll get you an appointment with my tailor. He’ll tell you that you’ll look good in anything, which is true, and give you some colors to pick from.” He hands off another bit of chicken to Marmalade. “I guarantee you that you will be flirted with by a variety of individuals whom I will glare at charmingly. And there will likely be a few persons from my realm very keen to meet you….”

Alicia, specifically. Edwin will probably avoid the event, if he can- he prefers to keep himself out of the public eye as much as possible.

He considers the matter as he starts into his own portion, smile widening with a fond look at his partner. “This is… excellent, Gregory. Perfectly cooked.”

 

*

 

Greg resists the urge to squirm. It doesn't matter how many times he cooks for Mycroft; hearing it's appreciated still lights him up a little inside.

"You know I'm going to be watching every single word I say, don't you?" he says, half-smiling as he picks up a fork. "We'll have to decide on a signal you can give me if I need to shut up. Just give me a quick squeeze on the arse, maybe."

His eyes glitter. He watches Mycroft eat for a moment, chin resting on one hand, then transfers a few vegetables from the central dish onto his plate.

"Come with me to the tailor," he says, hopefully. "I'm no good at this stuff. Colours. It - matters to me that I show up looking decent."

_Want to make you proud._

 

*

 

Mycroft lifts a brow with pointed intent and murmurs “hellion” between bites- it really is quite good, and he is not the only one who thinks so, as Marmalade soon jumps on the table to work out _why_ her food is not being served quickly enough. Mycroft being distracted by talk of Gregory’s arse and his hands thereupon is _not_ considered a good enough reason, thanks kindly.

“Down, your grace,” Mycroft chastens as he puts her back on her chair, and then sets the bowl of chicken (and a nibble of her more traditional dry offering) beside her. “There you go.”

The hopeful tone of Greg’s voice is enough to summon another smile. Mycroft would like to help him choose something, but he’s always careful not to be too overbearing. He doesn’t wish there to be any possible comparisons betwixt himself and the siren creature passing for human that Gregory calls an ex-wife.

“If you like,” he grins coyly. “Though I should mention, as an exceptionally biased party, that I would think you looked decent if you attended with nothing on at all.”

 

*

 

Greg can't fight a grin as well.

"Well, I suppose I'd make an impression... maybe a bowtie, just not round my neck? Not sure all your posh friends would be too taken with me."

Something in Mycroft's eyes suggests he couldn't care less whether Greg is approved of. He tries to find it heartening. Mycroft is clearly powerful enough that he'll associate with who he likes, thank you - and Greg's also pretty sure that some people will look down on Mycroft's chirpy Colchester boy regardless of what he wears, how he acts or how polite he tries to be.

What matters, he thinks, is being there with Mycroft.

And ultimately, taking the posh suit off will be more fun than putting it on.

"Do I have to flirt back at the variety of individuals? Or can I just flirt at you?"

 

*

 

“Cheek,” Mycroft smiles. “I’d be fending the lot of them off with a sword. You may keep your attentions singularly focused, thank you.”

Gregory will blend in well- he’s far more attractive and significantly smarter than the usual arm candy dragged to such affairs. He is officially attending in his Transportation role, though the gathering will also serve as a small gathering of intelligence personnel.

Some of them may be quite surprised that Mycroft Holmes, of all people, is in an actual _relationship._ And a serious one to boot.

He lifts a brow and deliberately flicks his tongue over his lip, sweeping up nonexistent stay morsels as he reaches for another small helping of vegetables.

“ _Just_ a bowtie sounds like a lovely look for you in the bedroom, however, if a bit… exotic dancer.”

Another concept that, by the sly look on Mycroft’s face, he is certainly not opposed to.

“Or just an apron, if you continue to cook like this.”

_Though that may utterly ruin my diet. I wouldn’t be able to resist anything he offered._

 

*

 

_God._

"M'glad you like it," Greg says with a small smile, swiping a piece of carrot through the sauce on his plate. It's hard not to feel pleased - he likes looking after Mycroft. There's a strong streak of domesticity in his nature that he's been rediscovering lately. Having Marmalade here has helped.

_Providing for you both._

_Bloody hell. Be baking muffins in my underwear next._

"Don't think I could keep a straight face in just a bow tie, to be honest. I'd be laughing too much to do anything to you." He chews the piece of carrot for a while, watching Marmalade lick chicken from around her mouth. "Always wrecks my head when I hear about people dressing up as sexy policemen. _'Arrest me officer'._ They probably don't do the bit where someone has to fill out an hour's worth of paperwork."

 

*

 

“That’s just an excuse to try and coax a partner into handcuffs. Or get into handcuffs themselves.”

Mycroft washes his portion down with a bit more wine.  

“Can’t say I object to the uniform, of course. Or the hour’s worth of filling _something_ in.”

They hadn’t actually brought proper cuffs into the bedroom yet- it’d been the occasional use of ties, or the belt off a dressing gown. Mycroft had engaged in some discreet internet browsing into sturdier options, and in fact had something on the way to that effect, but even though he’d had some illicit thoughts regarding creative use of Greg’s work cuffs, he knows they aren’t exactly rated for bedroom use.

Which is not doing a single, solitary thing to dissuade the sudden mental image he’s been granted of Gregory in one of those sexy police uniforms, twirling cuffs on the edge of his fingers.

Mycroft coughs gently when he realizes his fork has actually stilled mid-air, knocking himself back fully into reality and paying proper attention to the food his partner has so lovingly made. _Eat, you slattern._

“So will you still be subjected to Ryan Stringer's presence tomorrow, or has someone finally found some wisdom and reassigned him?”

 

*

 

Greg tries not to smile; he fails. Mycroft seems to be in a rather playful mood this evening. Then, Greg supposes they have plenty to be happy about. Even without the time at the lake house, it's been good just to have time with each other.

All good things must come to an end, though.

"Ah... yeah, he'll be there... can't really cite _'being a toadying little shitbag'_ as reason for a transfer. I've heard his dad knows the commander somehow. Old school pals? Something like that..."

Greg reaches for his wine, takes a mouthful then puts it back down.

"Life," he supposes. "Have to get on with people you'd rather not. He'll finish his fast-track scheme soon and go bolting off somewhere better."

Frankly, it can't happen quick enough.

"He keeps asking about you," Greg adds, with an unsettled frown. "It's... I don't know how to... if anybody else did it, I'd think they were being nice. 'How's your boyfriend, sir'. It's just something in his eyes when he says it. The way he smiles. I can't exactly pull him up for it. Hoped he'd stop after the first few times..."

 

*

 

“Hmph.”

Mycroft reminds himself to poke into Stringer a bit once his more recreational security checks are restored. Likely there is nothing it in but homophobia masked by awkward kissing up, but it never hurts to inquire.

“Well, at least he seems an excellent candidate to send off into dumpsters to look for evidence.”

Seeing Greg unsettled reminds him, though he’s been trying to set it aside, that they’ll both have to return to their normal lives tomorrow. This long weekend, even without the lake house, has been a blessing of luxuriating in each other. He’s been able to keep Greg’s mind off any arseholes at work, off his brother being a git; not to mention that Mycroft has more or less been able to set aside Sherlock from his own mind.

Tomorrow they’ll be back on their own, not able to simply dive into one another’s arms if the need arises. Having to wait until evening hours to cling and snog like normal people.

Being normal is utter rubbish, in Mycroft’s view. If it were not for an overabundance of loyalty to queen and country and a unsurpassed obligation to his duty he’d resign immediately and abscond with Greg to parts unknown, never to be bothered by anyone ever again. He extends his hand, clasping Greg’s and stroking his thumb over his lover’s broad knuckles.

“Don’t mind him, love. I’m sure he knows he’s got to play nice after nearly bungling your case single-handedly.... Probably trying to fake it and failing.” He smiles briefly, then suppresses it as he realizes what he’s intending to say might be a bit not good. “I could analyze him for you, if he’s bothering you.”

 

*

 

The corners of Greg's mouth turn upwards at once.

"S'alright, love," he says, smiling against the rim of his wine glass. He takes a sip. "Best case scenario, you spot something I could use to get rid of him... then I'll have to explain to the chief superintendent how I know. _'I've got a magic boyfriend'_ won't really cut it."

Beneath the table, his toes brush gently against Mycroft's ankle.

"If one idiot in my team at work is all I have to worry about," he says, "I'm a lucky bastard. Sure I'll cope."

Marmalade has finished her chicken and moved onto her cat kibble. The little crunching sounds coming from the bowl are rather sweet. Greg watches her, his gaze soft, half-aware that he's stroking Mycroft's ankle with his foot now.

_The two of you. My world._

"D'you ever just suddenly realise you're... happy?" he says, glancing into Mycroft's eyes. His own shine with a smile.

 

*

 

“Oh yes,” Mycroft intones as he shifts his foot closer to Greg’s.

“Every time I have the privilege of seeing you.”

It is, perhaps, a bit sappy, but also quite true. If it were not for Greg, Mycroft would be avoiding the stronger emotions quite well, only letting himself feel them quietly in the comfort of his own home. Having someone he can simply _love_ , unfettered, is a revelation.

He smiles softly over his wine at Greg as he finishes off his own portion of chicken and entertains the thought of seconds (plausible only due to the lack of heavy carbohydrates). Mummy did seem intent in her last call on meeting Gregory soon, however, and she always seems to know if Mycroft has been “over-indulging.” He’s better off limiting himself further until she’s passed her judgements and returned to her lair.

_Ah, well. I can content myself that I have spared enough calories for dessert._

He sips a bit more wine, eyes still glittering toward his partner as he breaks off a tiny slice of extra chicken for Marmalade, who trills her approval cheerfully.

“Have you decided on your dessert film yet?”

 

*

 

_Something we can miss the end of?_

It's too early in the evening for such smut, Greg thinks with a smile, as he gets out of his chair and fetches a tupperware box for the leftovers. The chicken will make sandwich meat for tomorrow, and breakfast for Marmalade. The veg can go for soup. He's sure Mycroft can afford to live without leftovers, but the habits of a lifetime are hard to break.

"Something funny," he decides, as he transfers the chicken into the box. "Something easy. Round off the weekend for us."

He gives Mycroft a small and rather warm smile, his eyes still bright.

"Something we can drink wine to. I want to get tipsy and relax."

 

*

 

“An admirable goal.”

Mycroft gets up and rounds the table just to place a kiss on Gregory’s cheek as he moves their wine glasses and the rest of the bottle to the film room. Marmalade, sensing a change in venue, jumps off her chair and trots after him to secure her spot on the back of the couch, where she likes to stay until she’s confident the humans are settled enough to serve as her pillows.

“How about… hmm, _Charade_? That should suit.”

Classic and a fair mix of excitement and humor, not to mention that Mycroft won’t mind at all if they’re a bit _too_ tipsy to enjoy the end.

He gets the movie started when Greg brings over the dessert, forgoing the spoon and somewhat deliberately swiping a finger through the cream and licking it off simply because he enjoys tormenting his partner in the most fun ways.

“Mmm, that’s delicious, Gregory.”

 

*

 

_God._

Greg tries to arrange his face into something more neutral as he settles next to Mycroft on the couch, tucking his socked feet beneath him.

"Think you do that on purpose sometimes," he says, trying his hardest not to smile. He nestles against Mycroft's side, and scoops up a little cream and meringue with his spoon, proud of how it's come out. Strawberries aren't always at their best this time of year. These ones are perfect, though. "I found a recipe online for brownies made with Irish cream... might have a go next weekend."

Marmalade trills from the back of the sofa.

"You don't like Irish cream, do you?" Greg says fondly, tilting his head back to her - and she kisses him very gently on the tip of the nose. His grin spreads from ear-to-ear. "What would you do with an Irish cream brownie, mm? We'd find it batted under the sofa weeks from now."

 

*

 

“On purpose? Surely not.” Mycroft grins slyly.

He watches Greg and Marmalade being tremendously precious, and despite his normal caution regarding personal photos on his phone, he slips it out and captures her tiny pink tongue brushing Gregory’s nose.

_Perfect._

He may as well get it printed and framed immediately, he’s that fond of the rampant adorableness. Not to mention the subjects.

“She just wants whatever we’re eating, love. Even if it’s not something she actually wants to eat. I think she likes that it’s offered.” He reaches over and strokes her ears. “But there will be no chocolate for you, miss.”

Mycroft will have to spend a bit of extra time on the treadmill to justify brownies with cream, but as Gregory’s cooking has already proven it will be worth it.

“Chocolate shall remain an indulgence of the humans. Especially any fudge ice cream that happens to vanish into the bedroom,” he adds idly and most decidedly on purpose.

 

*

 

Greg laughs in delight, turning to his partner with his eyes aglow.

"You _are_ doing that on purpose," he says as he grins, leaning up to kiss Mycroft's jaw. "God, I love when you're playful. One home-cooked meal and you're teasing me like I'm a mouse-toy..."

_Love that only I see this. Love that you're so close with me._

_Love that we have this._

_God, let it be like this forever._

Scooping up a strawberry, Greg offers it to Mycroft's lips; he'd feed him the whole bowl like this, if he could. This has been the happiest weekend he's had with Mycroft so far. All they have ahead of them are happy weekends. It's enough to make his heart heave at the seams.

"Are we gonna have to restart the film?" he says, amused - and bites into his lip.

 

*

 

“Mmm, well, you are a very good cook.”

He takes the strawberry in his teeth, mischievous and contented but the intimacy of it all, as well as the undercurrent of sensuality that has continued unabated since their first meeting, all studies of ‘the flagging interest of middle aged men’ be damned.

“You’re biting your lip, hellion- I can spot your tactics as well.”

Mycroft smiles, fond and loving and licking a bit of red, sugary juice from his lip. “No need to restart, I’ve seen it. Unless you’d like to. I promise to make an effort at behaving if you’re simply... too distracted.”

Marmalade mrows behind him, evidently asking why her preferred station on on of their laps has not become available yet. “My apologies, your grace, I fear I am being a terrible influence on Gregory.”

 

*

 

Greg's rather hoping he ends up with a 'hellion' tattoo someday. If he ever has need for an anniversary present,  he knows what he'll be presenting Mycroft with. The trick will be getting it done in secret.

As he watches Mycroft lick up the last of the strawberry, his pupils grow a little. His eyes brighten with his smile. 'Distracted' is definitely becoming the word for his current mood. They've not even had that much wine, but a drunken sort of happiness is now bubbling through him, and the soft need to play is arising. If Marmalade wasn't waiting for her evening cuddle, there's a chance Mycroft would have a lapful of Greg already.

As it is, there are priorities to be met.

Greg reaches for Marmalade with fondness, and gently lifts her down between them.

"C'mere, princess... shall Myc and I stop being slushy at each other, mm? We should know the rules about film time by now..."

As she starts to purr, Greg grins and rubs his fingers slowly under her chin.

He glances up at Mycroft, gentle joy visible in all of his face.

 

*

 

Mycroft leans down and fans his hand around the floor nearby until his fingers brush the fabric of one of Marmalade’s growing number of cat toys. This one is a long monkey, meant for her to kick and bite and play murder with, but she seems content to lick it until she has a sufficient catnip buzz to just nap on it.

“I’m so sorry that your subjects have been neglecting you, your grace. There’s your monkey.”

Her little paws close over it and draw it closer as her purring escalates in volume and she nuzzles against Greg’s hand.

Smiling back with tender affection, Mycroft reaches for his dessert to finish it off. “I should have known you weren’t the one I needed to be worried about distracting. Miss Marmalade would never let us disrupt her preferred schedule of fuss.”

Out in the street, it goes unnoticed by any of the residents within Mycroft’s home that a car draws up, pauses briefly, and then continues on down the block.

It parks three streets away.

No one minds as the individual within organizes a few small items into a bag. It’s a decent car, after all. No one in a decent car is ever suspicious.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Dead easy._

Two entry doors. Looks like she was right. One security door in a posh part of London is nothing unusual - but a second, straight after the first? That suggests a pay grade way above the Department of Transport.

Doesn't matter, though.

Both doors open without a sound to the same basic over-ride. This sort of professional knowledge isn't meant to be misused, but when the first thing he tries gets him through both doors without even a querying bleep, maybe he's doing Lestrade's posh toff a favour by showing him how crap his security is.

They're arrogant, that type. They think they own the world. They act like they don't have dirt like everyone else - the same little secrets as everyone else - and they think their pretty Kensington fortress is impregnable after dark.

A shock to find out they're wrong, he imagines.

Good for them in the long run, though.

The ground floor is in darkness as he steps inside the house, closing the second door gently behind him. He takes a minute to let his eyes adjust, standing as calmly in the entrance hall as if he's been invited in. A quick and idle wander around, taking his time to scope out each room, and it looks like this is some sort of show floor. Clearly, no-one fucking lives in these rooms.

It means that anything of interest will be further in.

He spent nearly two hours waiting in the car, biding his time for them to be asleep. He's not worried as he slips quietly up the staircase, keeping the beam of his torch low and the hood of his black jacket tight around his face.

The truth is that people who think they're smart really aren't; he's proven that already, just getting in here.

 

*

 

 _[23:18] SECURITY QUERY -- TRIGGER / LEVEL 1 --_   
_HOLMES M RESIDENCE -- 23:18 -- 2NDRY ENTRY WAY_ _  
_COUNTDOWN ACTIVATED (60sec)

 _[23:19] COUNTDOWN COMPLETE --_   
_NO CANCELLATION LOGGED_ _  
_COMMENCING SECURITY PROCEDURES

 _[23:19] SECURITY QUERY -- LEVEL 2 --_   
_HOLMES M RESIDENCE -- 23:19 -- 2NDRY ENTRY WAY_ _  
_QUERY HOLMES M -- FALSE ALARM Y/N?

 

*

 

"F-Fuck - ..."

Greg fists both hands in the pillow, dropping his head down as he pants. He can feel sweat shining on the curve of his back; the soft glow of the bedside lamp reflects from his skin as he arches. Mycroft's pace is relentless. The angle from behind against Greg's prostate is destroying him, robbing him of every breath he tries to take, and all he can do is arch and try to beg in whimpers as his lover's cock drives over and over into his body.

"Shit - s-shit - fuck me, Myc - fuck me... oh fuck, _slam me - "_

As he's pleading, straining, his torso now pinned to the bed by a hand between his shoulder blades, Greg thinks he catches a flash from Mycroft's mobile on the bedside. It's lying face-down, its screen pressed to the surface on which it rests. The light he sees is the thinnest slither.

The observation is gone from his head with the very next thrust.

All conscious thought blitzes in the wake of pleasure; he moans, stretching, and claws at the sheets.

 

*

 

 _[23:21] QUERY M HOLMES -- NO RESPONSE LOGGED_ _  
_ _ADVANCING SECURITY PROCEDURES_

 _[23:21] SECURITY QUERY -- LEVEL 3 (ORANGE) --_   
_HOLMES M RESIDENCE -- 23:21 -- 2NDRY ENTRY WAY_   
_QUERY HOLMES M -- FAILURE -- NO RESPONSE LOGGED_   
_AUTO ACTIVATE PRESSURE PADS/ALARM_ _  
_QUERY ANTHEA -- FALSE ALARM Y/N?

 

*

 

Soft skin nestled against her cheek, Anthea laps her tongue against the rosy brown circle of a nipple, enjoying the low, delightfully accented moans of “Oh, Anthe-” in response.

Today had been a more formal endeavor than their usual debauched hotel room and room service liaisons, including dinner out. Anthea had a lingering feeling of unease throughout, increased with every bit of misfired banter or forced explanations of phrases that simply wouldn’t translate quite right. Talking, apparently, is not their strong suit.

It had been a little disappointing to realize they don’t have quite as much in common when they aren’t ripping each other’s clothes off, though that was quickly curtailed by rushing back to their room and going right back to their common understanding of skin and mouths and wandering hands.

The sex is _never_ disappointing, at least. She grins, looking up at Juliette’s already rather wrecked expression. Anthea prides herself on her technique, and she’s looking forward to the inevitable string of profanity she always gets when she slips her hand _just so_ up the inside of Juliette’s thighs-

Her phone, deep in the inner bowls of her handbook, pings.

Anthea’s head snaps up.

She doesn’t offer any apology as she suddenly abandons her hold on Juliette and lets her sink against the wall. Work mode has been engaged, and she has only one concern: the safety of all the residents of Mycroft’s home.

 

*

 

 _[23:22] QUERY ANTHEA RESPONSE: N_ _  
_ _ADVANCING SECURITY PROCEDURES_

 _[23:22] SECURITY QUERY -- LEVEL 4 (RED) --_   
_HOLMES M RESIDENCE -- 23:22 -- 2NDRY ENTRY WAY_   
_PRESSURE PADS ACTIVE -- FL2_   
_ARMED RESPONSE AUTHORISED_   
_ALARM COUNTDOWN ACTIVATED (60sec)_ _  
_QUERY NEST 1 -- CANCEL ALARM Y/N?

 

*

In the basement flat that Anthea usually resides in, her substitute turns back from the footie to find the security monitor chirping at him in a silent countdown that becomes immediately less silent when he unmutes the damn thing.

“Oh- fucking-”

He flips through the surveillance rapidly, activating the internal cameras that they normally keep dark for Mr. Holmes’ privacy- the rule is that if it’s his brother, they’re not to intervene.

It takes him an extra twenty seconds to locate the figure on the stairwell, who is not nearly tall or thin enough to be the younger Mr. Holmes.

“Shit shit shit-”

He slams the “N” on the keypad, hits enter, and leaps for the shoulder holster he’d left hanging on the door.

 

*

 

Mycroft is sweating, trying to give Greg every bit of _harder_ that he’s asked for. It’s as though by sheer force he can merge them into one person, never to be separated, and Greg is sobbing with need, and Mycroft is _so close-_

He draws to a sharp, painful halt as the screeching siren of his alarm klaxons through the air and his mind snaps into a panicked state of awareness that, merged with his arousal, manages to him feel both hyper aware and extremely nauseous almost instantaneously.

Separating himself from Gregory makes it worse. “Greg- Gregory, panic room, now-”

He dives for his phone, and finds the security alert on it- the missed alert, along with a notification that Level 4 measures are being deployed. “Fuck-” _Intruder. In the house._

His body moves on autopilot, opening up the panic room door and flipping on the security feeds before he realizes, mind churning out of time with his body. _Marmalade- she could be anywhere- but sometimes she waits in the hall so we’ll let her into bed, after, but it’s so loud, she’ll be scared-_

“Gregory- is she-”

 

*

 

At the first shriek of the alarm, Greg reacts as if he's wired into the house.

He's never trained for _this,_ but he's trained in emergency response - and he's trained other people how to respond, too. The deadening rush of calm isn't even a choice. It floods through him in an instant, and his mind is gone. There's no thought. There's just action.

His feet carry him to the bedroom door before he's even realised where he's going.

Some part of his brain has made the strange jump of logic that Marmalade is somehow responsible for the alarm. She's knocked against something in the dark - because what else could it be? This is the safest place in London. It's a mistake.

The rest of his brain has been shaped enough by training not to trust that instinct.

As he wrenches open the door, there's a bolt of fur towards his ankles.

Pain ladders its way up his legs and his stomach into his arms. Greg registers the dig of her claws with the same dead calm as he hears the alarm. He grabs hold of her, wraps his arms around her firmly and kicks shut the door, then follows Mycroft without question into the panic room.

There isn't any fear on his face - not even shock. It's too soon for that. He steps through the metal security doors as calmly as he'd step into an empty tube carriage.

Marmalade has shredded her way up his body. The scratches are deep in her panic, bleeding already - they're going to hurt like hell when the adrenalin ebbs.

 

*

 

Mycroft closes the door, seals it, the din of the alarm dropping out in a stark contrast to the absolute silence in the closed room. His own breathing is the loudest presence. Even Gregory is calm, which he will take the time to be suitably impressed by later, after he works out whether this is an extremely ill-advised burglary attempt or an assassination.

_Gregory. Blood._

Protocol would indicate that he should get into his security systems- there are ways Mycroft can assist the response team that is no doubt en route, even from here- but he can’t, his mind has assessed Gregory as in greater need. The security teams can manage on their own.

He gently grasps Greg’s shoulder and guides him to the little cot. “Here, love, if you will just sit right here- Marmalade, you’re alright, sweetheart, aren’t you? No more loud noises, hm?” She looks at him, wide-eyed and unwilling to detach from her position in Greg’s arms.

_Alright. She’ll calm down in a bit._

There’s a first aid kit under the cot, along with tidily folded and wrapped extra clothing- just simple t-shirts and pajama bottoms. The panic room is made for efficient function more than anything else.

He kneels in front of Greg, his feet almost hitting the opposite wall, no idea how dishevelled and off-footed he looks or that he keeps muttering apologies under his breath as he digs through the kit for the antiseptic and some cotton wipes.

“Sorry- Gregory- I’m so sorry-”

 

*

 

Watching Mycroft search, Greg feels his heart thud heavily against his ribs. It seems to be carrying on the pattern of the alarm he knows is screaming outside of this room. What's going on in the rest of the house, he can't even imagine.

He knows Mycroft has two panic rooms as a professional precaution. The sort of people with panic rooms are the sort of people who get assassinated in their beds.

_But we're not._

_We're fine._

Keeping hold of Marmalade with one arm, Greg reaches the other hand for Mycroft. His fingers shake as they cup Mycroft's jaw and slide into his hair, wrapping around the back of his neck.

"C'mere," Greg manages. His voice doesn't sound like his own. Stress and shock are kicking in. He pulls Mycroft closer, shivering, and doesn't stop until their foreheads are pressed and their skin is touching.

If he wasn't scared to death, he'd care that he's covered in blood right now. He'd cared that he's naked, and that the lurch from mid-coitus to intense fear has left him shaking.

But right now, he just needs to hold them both and breathe.

"Love you." It's important to say. His fingers tighten in Mycroft's hair, his eyes shut. He can't cope with seeing things in this moment. He just wants to feel the two of them, one armful of soft fur and her heartbeat drumming frantically against his bare chest, the other hand buried in fine hair still damp with sweat, his lover's breath upon his cheek, their faces close. "S'okay. S'scratches. O-Okay for now."

He swallows, thickly.

"Love you so much."

 

*

 

Gregory’s back is clear of injuries, so Mycroft slides his hand there, gently stroking the soft skin.

“I love you too.”

He hadn’t been counting on the fear. When he’d been threatened before, with death or otherwise, it simply made him angry and coldly calculating.

Adding Gregory into the equation is, quite simply, terrifying.

The idea that anyone would even _consider_ hurting his lover wraps his mind in a combination of fury and terror that is very nearly incapacitating.

He reaches a shaking hand to Marmalade’s back. She shudders under the unexpected touch and he hesitates, hand wobbling unsteadily in the air, mind already unhelpfully supplying additional information.

_You’re hurting them, hurting them both, they’re only at risk because of you, it’s always your fault, Mycroft, honestly, you should have known, can’t even take care of your own brother, why should you be able to manage anyone else-_

He inhales. It hurts, the air too raw against a throat fearful of revealing any emotion.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t-”

 

*

 

Greg's grip tightens, pulling Mycroft closer still - he can feel his lover hesitating, feel that Mycroft's frightened, and it's killing him. _Together now. Together in this._

"N-No. No 'sorry'." The nuzzle he gives isn't gentle; it's not soft. It's raw, and firm, almost animal, and Greg's fingers shake as he breathes. "I knew. I knew, and I stayed. Told you. _I love you."_

He doesn't care who's out there, or how bad this is. He doesn't care how much he should be worrying. This is what he signed up for, and they'll be just fine.

As he starts to stroke the back of Mycroft's neck, firm and steady circles, he feels a shiver pass beneath the surface of his skin. It's true, what they say. Panic reveals your priorities.

"Come lie down," he manages, shivering, and presses a shaking kiss to Mycroft's jaw. "Three of us. Lie down and wait, yeah?"

 

*

 

Mycroft nods, feeling shaky and weak like he’s been seriously ill.

“Alright. Let me just- they’ll be wondering if we’re-”

_Alive._

He swallows. “Just need to- let them know.” He has to put a hand over Greg’s to ease him off- it’s hard, he doesn’t really want to break the contact, and it’s obvious that Gregory doesn’t either- and make his way to the security console to tap out the indicators that will mark him as secured and with his partner.

 _SECURE ACCESS POINT 1_   
_LOG: M HOLMES_   
_RES: ANTARCTICA/KEYSTONE/BAST_   
_STATUS: 1/2/1_ _  
_AUTHORISE: FULL RESPONSE

He hesitates over marking Greg as a two, effectively _in need of minor medical_ , but hopefully Gregory won’t mind a small amount of fuss.

Slinking back to the cot, he drags the blanket around them, wrapping himself in warmth and Greg and cat, brushing his cheek against Greg’s and soft fur.

“Love you,” he whispers to both of them.

_Don’t. Don’t break. Don’t cry._

“Anthea put Marmalade in the system as Bast,” he murmurs, saying anything to make this not… awful. He can talk, he can always talk, he’s good at talking. Not at feeling. “Egyptian cat goddess. I imagine we’re to be her loyal servants.”

 

*

 

 _Going to be blood all over the blanket._ Greg pulls Mycroft close again as soon as he's in the bed, Marmalade now nestled between them. He gathers Mycroft in against his chest, wrapping the blanket around him, surrounding him at once with arms that love him.

He's never seen Mycroft like this. Every protective instinct he's ever felt burns like fire in Greg's blood as he kisses Mycroft's head, closing his eyes, knowing it like he knows his own name, _I will die, I will put myself in the way, I will stop anything that comes through that door -_

"Yeah?" he whispers, cards his fingers through Mycroft's hair, and kisses his head again gently. He knows exactly what this game is. "Think this is the only room in your house not full of catnip mice and crinkly snakes..."

 

*

 

“Must have Anthea add that to the prep list… emergency cat bed, emergency catnip monkey….”

He’s curled down, forehead to Greg’s collarbone, trying and failing to stop looking at the smears of blood down Greg’s body. Not Marmalade’s fault, of course, she was only frightened, but the mere presence of Gregory’s blood is keeping him right on the teetering edge of a full panic attack. If only he can stop his mind from adding in things that did not happen, reasons for Gregory to be bloody that did not occur-

“You’re Keystone,” his mouth continues on without the rest of him. “Should’ve gone over… you should know the codes. In- in case.”

_In case you are ever here without me._

_In case I am… unable to assist._

_In case I am dead._

“I think it fits… hope you don’t mind.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart thumps so hard against his ribs he's sure it can be heard in the quiet. He presses his lips gently to Mycroft's temple, and holds them there for a long moment, a tremor passing through his fingers.

_Calm. Keep this calm, keep it easy. He's scared to shit._

"Thank you for telling me, darlin'. M'glad I know. In a few days, how about we run through other things I should know? So I can be helpful for you when this happens. So I know how to keep us safe."

_I know it's 'when'. I know it's like this. I'm not afraid._

"In a few days," he says softly, and he realises he's stroking the back of Mycroft's head - cradling him, fingers brushing rhythmically through his hair. "Few days when we can think again. Right now, we'll just hang on here. Safe here. All three of us."

His collarbones rise against Mycroft's forehead as he breathes in, slow and easy, his pulse deep and hard.

"You and your keystone and our goddess," he murmurs. "What're we doing for breakfast, darlin'? Think we've got some peaches left for your smoothie."

 

*

 

“Peaches?”

Breakfast is a discordant thought. Mycroft’s mind tries to inventory the current contents of his kitchen, simply because that is a tangible thought he can latch onto, and the ease of cataloguing information is somewhat soothing.

His eyes fall closed, Gregory firm and steady against him, all thoughts of blood banished for a moment.

“Cinnamon, yoghurt. There’s some bread for you… think you finished all the bacon.”

They hadn’t gone out to get more. Anthea had been insistent. Inside is safe.

_Hah._

Her substitute- Luke? Liam? No- Leo- will be lucky if he retains his position for the time it takes her to get back across the Chunnel.

“Anthea is going to be wroth.”

 

*

 

The thought of Anthea is strangely comforting. It actually helps Greg breathe a little, imagining her coming back from her weekend to all this fun. _She'll tighten the security, too. She'll find what went wrong. She'll make sure this doesn't happen again._

"Yeah," he sighs, and reaches down to brush the back of his fingers over Marmalade. "Yeah, she's going to go mental..."

Marmalade gives a little squirm, shifting between them in response to Greg's touch. She's very much still awake - something's wrong and she knows it - but she's quiet and settled between them, waiting along with her humans.

She gazes at Mycroft, her eyes round, and gives a little blink.

"Darlin', I... I think..." A thought is returning to Greg, and as soon as he's remembered, he can't _not_ say it. "I think I saw your phone get a - w-while we were - I honestly barely noticed it, I just... it kinda went out of my mind."

 

*

 

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “There’s a safety alert. In case I’ve done something foolish, or-” _Sherlock has broken in yet again._ “-or I’ve had an unexpected guest. I can- preemptively turn it off.”

Talking through it is helping- his heart rate is slowing. These are facts. He knows facts. Mycroft is extremely comfortable with facts. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over Marmalade’s little cheeks, her chin- she is less startled, now, more amiable to additional fuss for herself even if she is obviously put off by the theatrics of the alarm.

“The interior door to the building was breached. There are… protocols.” He inhales, feeling the oxygen steady his blood. “Anthea would have gotten a message after myself, indicating a- lack of response.”

“There was- no reason for you to- not while we were-  


*

 

Greg presses his lips to the top of Mycroft's head again.

"Good to know you've got the protocols," he murmurs. He watches Mycroft stroke Marmalade gently for a few moments, his pulse calming at the sight. "Glad you've got this room. All the security. Reassuring to know it works."

_Like this is a good thing. Like we did it purposely. Like it's a practice._

_Like there's not someone in the house, right this bloody second._

Greg's heartbeat skips a little at the thought. He suppresses it, closing his eyes.

_Doesn't matter. Could be fifty men out there armed with all sorts. Fine. So long as we can get in here quick, it's alright._

"Darlin', did I see clothes with the first aid kit? D'you - mind if we - "

He hesitates, tightening his arms a little.

"Might make us feel a bit less..."

He can't say the word _'vulnerable';_ he can't bring himself to form that word right now.

 

*

 

“Yes, there’s- supplies, in case of- longer term needs….”

Mycroft shifts on the cot, sliding off and back to his knees beside it, but instead of grabbing the clothes it’s the first aid kit he reaches for, hands much steadier now.

“Let’s just make sure you don’t bleed on them, hm? I’ll get your leg first, so our glorious goddess doesn’t need to move quite yet… it may sting a bit.”

He glances up, eyes finally skimming over Gregory’s face.

_Look how strong he’s being. For me._

_I love you, beautiful._

Mycroft presses a kiss to Greg’s knee, summoning his reserves of calm humor to lighten the mood. “I suppose it’s fair to wish to be clothed when my team eventually comes in. Unless exposing yourself to an armed tactical team is something you’d enjoy?” he adds with a cheekily lifted brow.

_Let me help you relax too._

 

*

 

Greg gazes back into Mycroft's eyes, experiencing a sensation like his heart breathing in.

_Look at you. You're terrified, but you're looking after me._

_God._

The quiet rush of love shows in Greg's face. He swallows a little, lying back on the cot to let Mycroft reach the claw-marks. As the shock settles, he can already feel which ones are going to be causing him the most grief - there's a nasty swipe down his right side, stretching from just over his hipbone all the way down to the top of his thigh, passing deep into the skin.

He can't resent it, though. She was scared, and she needed to get to him. She did the right thing.

"Your eyes only," he says to Mycroft, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. He has a feeling this is comforting for Mycroft - emotionally reassuring to heal the damage.

_I'm okay, baby. I'm alright. You can look after me._

Greg's heart tightens.

"Sure Anthea's got enough taped footage of me exposing myself by now," he says. His eyes shine. "There's probably not a soul at MI5 hasn't seen me soaping up in the shower, right? Has she made a compilation of her favourite bits of us fucking yet?"

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a strangled combination of a laugh and a cough. “Rogue. If she has, I would hope she would have the grace to send me a copy.”

He can’t help the smile that slips onto his lips. The banter is fun, as always, but in this instance it serves a great deal more to reassure him that neither of them is going to fall apart. They’re simply in a room together, naked and witty.

_Like any other weekend._

Cotton and antiseptic sweep up much of the damage- a fair bit looked worse at first glance than it actually is, though there is enough of it that Mycroft is going to have to have a very serious chat with Marmalade and a cat nail trimmer. Hopefully she will not mind a bit of a manicure.

He smiles fondly at Greg as he moves up, reaching the longer cut as his thigh. This one gains particular care and the careful application of bandages.

“It’s not MI-5 you need worry about, anyway,” he says, realizing that of all the rooms in his home, the panic rooms are the only ones without any possible external surveillance. “Unless you wish to impress the armed response team, which will be… mostly that lot.”

 

*

 

Greg stirs a little as Mycroft applies antiseptic to the deeper cuts. Breathing eases the sting. He only needs Mycroft's hand when he reaches the clawmarks beneath his hipbone.

He comforts himself through it by rubbing the back of Mycroft's knuckles, and reminding himself this could have been a lot worse. If Marmalade had been a few inches to the right, he'd be needing a lot more than a hand to hold right now. Gin, as a start - and possibly something to bite on.

"The Armed Response team can keep their eyes to themselves," he says, watching Mycroft with a glitter in his gaze. "M'very spoken for."

 

*

 

“Mmm. Quite right.”

The dressing goes on the line of slashes, just taped on- Mycroft is reasonably sure this is going to require a small number of stitches, which he would only do himself if he didn’t think they would be cleared out of the room within an hour at most.

It’s deep, and not in a good place for healing. He doesn’t care for the look of it, and staring at it for too long is only making the anxious undercurrent in his mind reassert itself.

He tucks it behind clean cotton where he can’t see it.

“Try not to move this too much.”

The next section is being lovingly covered over by Marmalade, who is watching the proceedings with some curious interest.

“Shall we relocate her grace, or are those troubling you less?”

 

*

 

Greg hesitates at the thought of not moving much. Sitting down and standing up will pull at that particular patch of skin, and his job involves an awful lot of both.

"Seeing as you've... would you clean them for me?"

Gently Greg eases Marmalade off his chest to the side, uncovering the last few scratches for Mycroft. They're not too bad above the navel - he'd mostly got her into his arms by then - but he supposes it's calming them both down.

As Marmalade watches Mycroft clean the wounds, she sniffs tentatively towards the cotton ball. _Smells of vet,_ Greg thinks. She turns her head to watch Greg, apparently checking he's alright. Greg smiles for her. She responds gently to the offer of his nose, pressing her own against his in a small kiss. Greg can't even remember when they started doing this - one night, he thinks, probably while watching a film with Mycroft. Marmalade kisses are now standard issue.

When the wounds are all clean, Greg pulls a cotton t-shirt carefully over his head.

He's sure the Armed Response team will be able to guess what state they were in when they entered the room, given that they'll be found dressed in identical cotton clothes. The bed sheets will still be hitched around the shape of their bodies, the pillows crammed up against the headboard where he pushed them.

In a way, it's strange to imagine the house still exists outside this room. It feels very contained, like a tiny world of its own. The lack of sound must play a big part in that.

"If I hold her," Greg says, gathering Marmalade gently into his arms, "d'you - want to clean her paws up? Sure she can do it herself, but..."

 

*

 

“Oh-”

For a moment Mycroft stares a bit blankly at the alcohol wipes in his hands. Are those safe for cats? His mind feels slow, it will not provide the answer. Surely it is in there, somewhere? He retains nearly everything else.

He blinks. It doesn’t come.

“I’ll just… maybe a towel. And a bit of water.”

Wetting it in the small sink, he gently brushes over her little pink pads, pressing them to draw out her sharp claws and rinse whatever she’s gotten of Gregory off her. She seems mildly affronted by the endeavor and as soon as he stops and she is free she trots to the end of the cot and sets about cleaning her paws herself, as though he must be shown how to do it properly.

He pulls out one of the cotton pajama bottoms and holds it out, offering his shoulder for Gregory to lean on. “Here- stand up carefully- don’t bend, just brace on my shoulder, I’ll get them up for you-”

Somehow it matters more to him that Gregory is clothed and comfortable. Mycroft would go out there utterly nude if it meant his response team would let him engage in a not insignificant amount of corrective action upon whomever has so deeply ruined his evening.

“Better? Do you- would it be better for you to lay down, do you think- or- there’s bottled water, are you thirsty?”

 

*

 

"Better," Greg says, and feels a comforted shiver pass down his arms. There's something about being clothed leaves him calmer. It's easier to put out of his mind that they were making love while an intruder was in the house. If it weren't for Mycroft's security, they could have been -

_Doesn't matter. Didn't happen._

_The security's not going anywhere, and nor am I._

As he loops his arms gently around Mycroft's waist, stepping close to him to cuddle, Greg rests his head against his lover's shoulder. The cotton feels soft and clean between them; Mycroft's back is warm under his hands.

"I don't think I'm thirsty," he says, softly. "I'm - a bit shook up, to be honest - w-wondering if I should go in late tomorrow maybe. Stay with you a couple hours."

He turns his face gently into Mycroft's neck, nuzzling.

"They won't expect you in early, will they? If you - if your house was - in the night, I mean - "

 

*

 

“That depends on whether the house can be considered secure or not,” he murmurs into Gregory’s hair, embracing the cotton sheath that wraps his lover.

“Work is _extremely_ secure. The last time I had a- significant breach- they pulled me in for a week. When I came out they’d moved me to a new flat.”

He sighs. The security services are the epitome of _keep calm and carry on_. In truth, they would expect him in on time even if this occurred at four in the morning.

Hopefully whatever lapse in security had occurred would be enough to justify an additional hour or two.

“I may be able to claim additional rest is required.” He presses a gentle kiss to Greg’s cheek.

“Will you?”

 

*

 

"Yeah... yeah, I - think a rest will help. Honestly, it all feels a bit surreal right now. Like it's not really happening."

Greg tries a small smile, looking up at Mycroft from their few inches of height difference. When they're in bed, sitting on the couch, or having dinner, he often forgets that Mycroft is taller. It's only when they cuddle like this that he tends to remember.

Kissing Mycroft gently on the lips, he adds,

"Weird to think we're... totally safe, but - well." _Not._

There could be still be someone in the house who'd come here with the express intention of hurting Mycroft - maybe even killing him. They could be right on the other side of that wall. But in here, it's calm and quiet. Marmalade is now grooming herself at the end of the cot, and they're safe enough to hold each other gently like this.

It's a weird paradox, Greg thinks. Maybe Mycroft feels like this all the time, surrounded by security that should leave him deeply safe - but is only there in response to threat.

Maybe it's something you just get used to.

Looking into his lover's eyes, Greg takes Mycroft's face gently in his hands.

"We're fine," he says, and kisses Mycroft - and for Greg, it's all that matters. "S'good this happened. I know what to do now, if it happens again. Shall we get you into some clothes too, darlin'? Don't want you to get cold."

  



	3. Chapter 3

It takes hours.

Hours of holding each other, curling together and eventually trying to sleep, Marmalade piling on top of their effort to squeeze onto the small cot. It’s an effort in name only- they’re both too nervous, especially as time ticks on. 

About an hour in, the panic room’s secure line received a call: Anthea on her way back, her own trip cut short, simply assuring Mycroft that though she did not have the answers yet she would be there soon and she would get them.

That’s enough to ease their minds enough to try and relax just a little.

When they’re eventually let out, the secure line receiving another call with the codes indicating it is safe to exit, they come out to an almost alarming lack of activity, Mycroft’s hand wrapped firmly in Greg’s. There’s signs of foot traffic of course, things just slightly moved, the imprint of boots with traces of dirt and grass in the carpet.

There’s simply no people.

“Where are they?”

“Outside, sir.” Her tone says she told them to get out, and that they have felt her recent and forceful displeasure. “Investigatory teams have already been dispatched. A cursory inventory of your more confidential possessions did not find anything taken, and pursuit teams have already been dispatched to look.”

Mycroft lifts a pointed brow. “No one was taken into custody?”

“No, sir- review of your security footage suggests either an extremely skilled or an extremely lucky burglar- he successfully ran from Leo before the teams arrived.” 

She has a few stacks of paperwork- lord knows how she already has those printed, and Mycroft is pointedly ignoring the calculation of what speeds she must have driven to return with such haste. “You’ll need to do an inventory of your personal items- you as well, Mr. Lestrade, for anything you’ve been keeping on the premises.”

“Hmph.” He takes the file she offers, photos already printed in blurry darkvision of a figure that shows nothing useful at all. Mycroft resolves to review it in greater detail when his mind is less fogged. 

“Of all the scenarios I had in mind, housebreaking to look for valuables was not one of them.” Passing the folder to Gregory, he offers a dark grin. “I don’t suppose you would condone it if I wished to land this man in prison and have everyone forget about him entirely for, say, a fortnight, would you?”

 

*

 

Greg takes the folder warily, looking down at the photograph. It's more than a little eerie - just enough detail to definitely be a person, making their way in silence up the staircase.

Greg's brow furrows. 

He finds himself unable to return Mycroft's smile; it takes him a second to figure out why.

"Housebreaking's... not common in this part of London, is it?" he says, glancing at Mycroft. "Tends to happen in the poorer neighbourhoods. Places where you've got a lot of unemployment."

He hesitates, reading his lover's face for a moment.

"They don't tend to risk going upstairs," he adds. "Not unless they're certain the place is empty. Tend to work in pairs or threes, one as a look-out. And - I mean, your door's top-of-the-range security..."

He hands the file back to Mycroft.

"Do what you like when you find him," he says, with a faint smile. "The guy frightened Marmalade. To the chair with him, frankly. Just... get someone to interview him properly before you throw away the key? Not sure this adds up."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s smile falters. Gregory is right, though he’d been hoping that neither of them would have to contemplate the matter much yet. At least not until it’s properly morning.

He’d honestly been too immediately struck with a wash of relief that no one was there to  _ kill _ him. Or worse, Gregory.

_ Not to mention the risk to the cat. _

“There is- well, if it were a housebreaker, I don’t suppose there’d be much to steal on the first floor….” Not unless the thief were interested in antique, stuffy books or the piano.

His eyes shift, more calculating, shrugging off his tiredness as he looks back to Anthea. “Do we know which rooms he was in?”

“The kitchen. Your office, sir, but the safe is intact. And the, ah. Secondary panic room’s door was ajar.”

If a face could show steel and devastation at the same time, Mycroft’s would manage it. He snatches his dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door. “I’ll have a look at the inventory now, thank you.”

 

*

 

_ What the hell is that look? _

As Mycroft pulls on the dressing gown, Greg feels his heart tighten strangely. If the secondary panic room is like the one they've just spent the night in, there's surely nothing worth stealing in there.

"Darlin'?" He reaches a hand cautiously for Mycroft's elbow. "What's wrong?"

 

*

 

“It’s. Ah. I store a number of. Personal items. In the lower panic room.”

He hasn’t been in there in an age- with Gregory about so often he has had other things to pour his attention into, and it simply hadn’t come up in any way where it would make sense to show it- explain it- to Gregory.

When he’d tried, in the past, no one seemed to understand. Surely he, a crucial part of the British government, would have better things to occupy his time with?

It was different when he was alone. 

He talks as he moves, taking Gregory’s hand guiding them together down the stairs, Anthea trailing some ways behind. The words are soothing in their factualness. Gregory will not judge him. He  _ won’t _ , because if he did Mycroft is not sure he could cope with it right now. “It wasn’t meant to be a panic room, really- but I had it rated for fire and explosives when my brother was meant to be moving in. To make a laboratory for him. But he didn’t, and eventually I….”

He trails off as he pushes open the heavy fireproof door the rest of the way.

The space does not look like a panic room. On the far side there’s a long counter with a built-in sink and hookups for burners and gas- a lingering remnant of Sherlock’s pursuits.

The rest of it is more or less covered in paper. 

Large, framed drawings- maps- line the walls, a curled hand noting the names of the lands represented.  _ Narnia. Middle Earth. Westeros.  _  Other smaller works are intricately drawn symbols- a shield, a sword, an axe.

There’s a bookshelf, full of the old and worn books Mycroft sometimes lends to Gregory, nearly all of which could be classed as fantasy or children’s adventures- and not all of them dating from the years of Mycroft’s childhood, some are far more recent than that. In a special shelf nearby with glass covers there’s another, older set, that appears to be carefully preserved first editions.

A soft and colorful armchair, the sort you sink into, rests in one corner. A daybed covered in cushions- cushions that appear to similarly bear signs of minimalist design that may tie to literature. The most prominent one, set right in the middle, is black with a golden ring displayed on it, the elvish script obvious even across the room. 

What seems to have Mycroft’s attention, however, are the papers now drifting about the floor. It appears a file organizer has been tipped, and the contents are everywhere. Most of them are hand-drawn maps, some perhaps of the same lands with minor changes made. Some are intricately arranged lists in a cramped script, names and plots and family trees.

He sinks into it on his knees, picking up a sketch that looks like Antarctica, laid over with miniature castles and trees and cities.

“Was it like this when they….”

Anthea nods. Mycroft lets out a shuddering sigh, surprised by the sense of extreme personal violation that comes with knowing someone, anyone, was in this space without his consent. Tipping his head against Gregory’s thigh, he lets out a laugh to prevent himself from crying. “Gregory, I….”

 

*

 

_ God. _

_ God, you - you make -  _

Greg had no idea. 

Every time he's come here, every night he's slept here, he didn't have a clue about any of this. He's always been aware of the fantasy books - he knows that Mycroft likes reading them - but he didn't realise the love was this deep, this...  _ deep. _

Looking around, Greg's heart squeezes into his throat at once. 

It takes him a second to be sure he can speak without his voice breaking. He turns to face Anthea in the door, his gaze soft with shock and distress; he lays a hand on the side of Mycroft's head. 

"Will you... just give us - ?" he says gently. 

_ I'll look after him. I'll do this bit. _

_ You do all the rest, and I'll do this bit. _

 

*

 

Anthea is gone almost before Greg finishes speaking, the heavy door closing behind her. She gives him a look as it shuts, a sort of approving one, and a quick nod.

It’s a gesture of trust. 

There are few people that she is willing to trust fully when it comes to Mycroft’s welfare, but Greg is one. He’s earned that.

When the door is shut, Mycroft wraps his arm about Greg’s leg, pressing his face into the cotton. He will  _ not _ cry, not about this, not about the silly little hobby Mummy insisted he toss aside for years because  _ no one will take you seriously if you can’t live in reality, Mycroft, honestly. _

“They’re not damaged,” he breathes, voice hoarse with the effort of restraining a more emotional display. 

“I’ll just… need to reorganize them. That’s all.”

 

*

 

Greg lowers himself to his knees. His arms go around Mycroft with care. His hold is gentle and unrestricting, and he's sure his heartbeat can be felt in his chest. He can hardly breathe.

"M'glad they're not damaged," he says softly, and places a tiny kiss against Mycroft's hair. His eyes close with a rush of sympathy and love. "Glad you've not lost anything, sweetheart."

_ God, the hours you must've spent... the years... all the time and the care... _

"We can sit tonight, if you want... make sure it's all still here. I might not be much help, but I can keep you company. Make you coffee. Sit with you."

As he brushes back Mycroft's hair, his fingers gently shake.

"Darlin', I... I didn't realise you - "

 

*

 

“It’s- only a silly hobby. I….”

He nuzzles his face into Greg’s chest, hands curling about the warmth of his stomach. It feels safe there, like he can ignore the traces of wet his eyes are leaking onto the cotton. Like the most private parts of his mind haven’t just been spilled across the floor for some burglar and an entire MI-5 response team to stomp all over.

_ He hasn’t said it’s silly, _ Mycroft realizes. 

_ Perhaps he’s just being kind. _

Mycroft doesn’t really think that, though. This is Greg. Gregory, who  _ loves him. _

He pulls back and looks up to Greg, eyes watery but slightly hopeful. “You… don’t mind it?”

 

*

 

As Greg looks back into Mycroft's eyes, his own gloss with silent tears. 

He cups Mycroft's face, gently; he gazes at him in utter love.

"What's to mind?" he says. His voice breaks a little, and he lets it. "It's not silly. They're special to you... means they're special to me, too. M'sorry someone knocked them all over the place."

He doesn't know if it's crossed Mycroft's mind yet that a thief with interest in rare books might target something in this room. He doesn't know enough about Mycroft's collection to know whether someone would commit burglary to have part of it - but he knows that books kept in glass cases are valuable. 

It suddenly distresses him beyond measure that someone might have taken a cherished object that belongs to Mycroft. Something precious.

As he strokes his thumb under Mycroft's lips, Greg's heart strains gently against his ribs.

"Do you... is it all from the books you like? Or - do you have your own things, too?"

 

*

 

“Oh.”

It shouldn’t be surprisingly that Greg’s warm, kind honesty encompasses the whole of Mycroft’s existence, but it is. It still shocks him, regularly, that he’s somehow managed to find someone who loves every part of him, and not just the useful bits.

_ Lord. I’ll never wish to let you go.  _

He dabs at his eyes and presses a kiss to Greg’s hand.

_ Thank you. _

“It’s- both. I… like arranging all the data, it’s very- relaxing.” He takes a breath, lets that steady him a bit in Gregory’s arms. “The maps as well. I’ve thought, on occasion- perhaps when I am retired-”

Not that he’d ever really be allowed to retire, not with things as they currently stand. Mycroft is  _ integral. _ His work is important. 

Really, it’s surprising that he’s managed to maintain any hobbies at all.

He holds out the map in his hand to Gregory, hesitant for only a second before the words begin spilling. “This is mine- a secret kingdom in Antarctica- the ice would be magic, of course, a way to keep the rest of the world out….”

A glance over the floor searches for the rest of it- there’d been a city map, and a family tree for the royal family-

Something at the edge of mind nudges him.  _ Something wrong. Something’s missing.  _

Cautiously, he lets his analytic senses turn on, oblivious to the way it must look, like he’s suddenly just tuned out the world. 

_ Folders- something about the folders- _

He can see what must have happened- the files must have been held when the alarm went off, dropped out of surprise. He’d had them all color coded, of course, and that- that’s what’s missing. He’s two folders short.

Both are old folders. One contained his own sketches of laboratories, things he sent to Sherlock to try and entice him back into a reasonable living situation. Photos of their mother’s old physics space. Notes from Sherlock, scrawled on the side of correspondence with rude things said about Mycroft, telling him to piss off.

The other one contained the family photos he’d never got around to framing, things sent from Mummy that he would never wish to display in his home. Frilly baby clothes and the like.

His head tilts. “Gregory, for what reason would a housebreaker take family photos?”

 

*

 

_ Antarctica.  _ Greg can't help but smile at once, gazing down at the map. It's as beautiful and neat as anything he's ever seen, and the obvious care taken in producing it makes his heart swell a little just to see. Immediately he wants to know more. He wants to know how detailed this place is in Mycroft's mind - if these maps are just the tip of an iceberg.

Then Mycroft goes quiet in his arms, and Greg inclines his head gently towards him. He watches Mycroft's eyes move, and watches him think, wondering what is passing at such speed through Mycroft's mind.

The question takes him by surprise at first. His mouth pulls, thinking, and his detective's brain supplies him with a first handful of lines of inquiry.

"Blackmail," is the obvious first thought, and he offers it with reluctance. "If there's something in the photos you would want to keep quiet - might be something you're not aware of. He maybe took them by accident, thinking they were something else. If you had birth certificates stored with them, maybe identity theft... but I'm guessing that with your job, impersonating you would be next to impossible."

His ideas are running dry already. It's a bloody unusual thing to steal, he has to admit - especially in a house where so much else is valuable. 

"Another member of the family wanting them?" he suggests, knowing it's a little lame. He could imagine a family feud in some rougher areas of London might lead to the attempted robbery of precious keepsakes, but he hardly hears anything from Mycroft about his family. A feud on that scale would surely have become apparent by now. 

Watching Mycroft gently, and rubbing his shoulder with care, he says,

"Looks to me like the guy came across them by accident, rifling through everything else. Could just've been panic. Grab something and run."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows as he mentally goes over the contents. “No, there was nothing deeply important- nothing more incriminating than questionable children’s fashion from the 1970’s.”

That’s true- isn’t it? Surely none of his inane correspondence regarding the legal specifications for the handling of hazardous substances would hold any interest to a casual burglar. 

_ Strange. _

“If my brother had broken in he wouldn’t have bothered hiding his face. The security team already knows not to shoot him,” he adds dryly, as though the possibility has been on the table before. It has, of course. The team has a understanding that the most they’re allowed is to tranquilize him, but even that is only to be done if he’s become unreasonably violent because it could react with whatever drugs are likely already in his system.

“Besides, Sherlock insists he didn’t have a childhood.”

He picks up another sheet, this of carefully drawn flags with notations for the colors they would be, all styled from formal crests with names of houses and titles like “Duke” and “Baroness.” Mycroft leans into Greg’s chest, tucked in tightly and feeling the weight of the day’s turmoil begin to settle into his bones. 

It’s utterly exhausting, feeling so much so rapidly.

“I ought to check the office… all my files for work were in the safe, of course, but one never knows.” He ought to, only he can’t quite bring himself to get off the floor yet, and Greg is both warm and comfortable. Besides, it must be either excruciatingly late or far too early.

He nuzzles his cheek against Gregory’s borrowed shirt. “You- you are a pillar of strength to me, Gregory, do you know that? My rock.”

“I love you.”

 

*

 

Greg wonders in the back of his mind whether Mycroft is joking about his brother breaking in. He's yet to meet Mycroft's brother, or even hear too much about him. Everything he's been told about Mycroft's childhood suggests that Mycroft was very glad to grow up - Greg often gets the impression he wants as little to do with his brother as possible.

_ Like me and Andy. _

The thought dissipates as Mycroft leans into his chest. Greg's protective instincts rise at once, and he tightens his arms around Mycroft, placing a gentle kiss upon his head. 

The words nearly fill his eyes with tears again. He closes them, letting the heat settle, and brushes his nose with love along Mycroft's hairline.

"Can't put into words what you've done for me. What you've given back to me." His throat muscles work quietly as he swallows, stroking back Mycroft's hair with his fingers. "I want to do the same for you... support each other. Strong together. M'sorry for what happened last night. I know your people will sort the house out - sort the intruder out. S'my job to sort you out."

He wishes they had the day together, just to sleep and recover. He wants to help Mycroft put his home back together. He wants to make sure Marmalade's okay. The last thing he wants right now is to shower, get his work clothes on, and go look at Ryan Stringer.

"Can I look after you tonight?" he asks, softly. "Cook something you like... take care of you a little. We can go to my flat, if they're not done here. Take her highness, too. Curl up in bed with Netflix maybe."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s nod catches Greg’s scent from his shirt, mixed with the inoffensive fresh cotton of the garment. “Yes. Thank you.”

Anthea can deal with the arrangements here- handle whatever else the team may need, if they do not already have it. Surveillance should take care of a great deal. 

He tilts his head up and kisses just under Greg’s chin. “We ought to get back in bed, see what remaining hours of rest we can manage.”

It won’t be enough. Tomorrow will feel long, and exhausting, but with Gregory waiting at the end of his day it will always be worth it to get through the slog.

As for tonight, he’ll have to be content with Greg’s arms about him, holding him close.

 

*

 

As they step through the door of Mycroft's bedroom, they find Marmalade sprawled across the pillows on her back. Like most of her kind, she has the ability to nearly double in length when she wishes to take up space, and looks thoroughly pleased with herself.

Greg gets a harrumph as he transfers her gently to the chair in the corner.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. Come stand on my chest at five AM to punish me."

He leans low to her.

"Goodnight, princess."

Marmalade burbles, leans up, and presses her nose to his.

Once he's closed the bedroom door, Greg pulls a nearby dresser in front of it. He knows it's unnecessary. He knows that with Anthea back on site and on high alert, no building in the world is more safe right now - but he won't sleep without it. Some part of him now sees this room as the cave where the man he loves is sleeping, and nothing is going to convince him to feel otherwise tonight.

As he gets into bed with Mycroft, nestles close and wraps an arm around his lover, it crosses Greg's mind maybe to acquire some kind of personal protection - something to keep close at hand. These things are closely regulated, but there are always ways and means.

_ Paranoid old wreck, Lestrade.  _

_ Just a housebreaker. Got lucky with the door. _

_ Forget about it. _

"Wake me up if you need me," he murmurs to Mycroft, cups his face and kisses him - slowly, gently. "Anything. M'right here."

 

*

 

Something about Greg moving an entire  _ dresser _ in front of the door looks very masculine- very strong and protective in a way Mycroft never thought he needed. That role nearly always went to himself, or to persons in his own employ.

Gregory, it seems, will never cease getting him to learn more about himself.

“My knight in shining armor,” he says sleepily, the space between their lips warm and comfortable. “Protecting me from dragons.”

He falls asleep curled into Greg’s chest, legs twined together, as close as he can possibly get.

 

*

 

Miles away across the city, a phone rings, cut off mid-ding when it is picked up.

“Oh, you’re an early riser, aren’t you. I didn’t think anyone would actually pick up,” a feminine voice croons.

Sherlock Holmes stares at his peeling ceiling. “It would be pointless to call if you did not expect an answer.”

She giggles and Sherlock sighs, already expecting to be bored. “Fair enough. I’ve seen your website… you  _ deduce _ things, is that right?”

“Yes. Purely scientific. Anything can be deduced if you know what to look for.”

“Hmmm. And would you… deduce something for pay? Only- it’s my husband, you know, I’m sure he’s having an affair-”

_ Definitively boring. _

“They usually are. I’m afraid this is not the sort of-”

“I could pay you- I don’t want him to realize I’ve hired anyone, but I could-” she titters nervously, somewhat shy, and Sherlock knows intrinsically that she’s speaking about sex.

“I don’t-” he begins, rolling his eyes.

“Or- well, I shouldn’t- but since you deal with- you know, underworld types- I’ve got a bit of- um, well, I shouldn’t say over the phone, but my brother-in-law’s taken it from a drugs bust-”

Sherlock sits up, suddenly very alert. “What sort?” Even the thought makes him  _ itch. _ He hasn’t given his brain that sort of stimulation in an age, what with Mycroft’s cronies lurking about.  _ Ludicrous. _ He knows the science, he can manage his own dosage if only they’d stop  _ interfering- _

“Oh- well-”

“Right, not over the phone. Sensible. Could you make a meeting in St. Regents? Ten o’clock?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Good. I’ll be at the bench closest to the Baker St tube station. Bring your- payment. What’s your name?”

“Lizzie. Lizzie Lestrade.”

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

It's something about the grin, Greg thinks - that knowing, bright-eyed grin.

"Morning, boss..." Stringer's made him a coffee. He slides it across the reception desk to Greg, and even something about that is  _ weird.  _ He doesn't know why Stringer raises his hackles. It seems like the guy doesn't even have to try, though. It's unsettling. "Late night?"

As Greg takes his post from Fiona, his mouth flat, he glances sideways at Stringer.

_ Why do I get the feeling you're accusing me of sex?  _ he thinks, watching Stringer's eyes glitter.  _ Why d'you have to joke? Why's it so fascinating I might've gotten laid last night? _

It crosses his mind that maybe Stringer's repressing something - some curiosity towards gay men, and it shows itself in jokes and juvenility. He can't imagine what the hell else this is about.

_ Unless you just get a kick out of teasing me. Nipping at my heels. Jumped-up little terrier that you are. _

"Partner's flat got broken into," Greg says. He didn't come in with the intention of telling people - he just needs to wipe that look off Stringer's face. "We were asleep upstairs when the alarm started screaming. Myc's still shook up."

Fiona is horrified at once. A few people nearby overheard, and as they drown Greg in sympathy and anxious questions, asking if there's anything they can do, Stringer takes his leave and slinks away. 

_ Thought so.  _

Greg almost wishes the pointy-faced twat would push it further - cross the line, go too far, say something Greg could actually discipline him for. Right now, all the creepiness is in that smile. It's all under the surface. 

_ Only a matter of time,  _ Greg tells himself, as he empties the coffee untouched into the sink, washes out the mug and makes himself a new one.  _ He'll slip up sooner or later. Just need one ‘cock-sucking’ comment, and he can enjoy being transferred to Aberdeen. _

 

*

 

Work feels almost lazy in its pace now the Fenton trial is over. The normal stream of inquiries and investigations is easy to oversee, and Greg makes it to lunchtime in a surprisingly comfortable mood. He's a little slow after the night's chaos - but it's much better this happened now, rather than when they worked twelve-hour days.

He heads out for coffee and a sandwich. As he's handed them by the barista, he feels his pocket vibrate. He pauses by the door to check his phone, his heart lifting at the thought of Mycroft.  _ Hope you're okay... god knows you've got more to deal with everyday than I have... _

The text isn't from Mycroft. 

It's from his brother's wife. She's a bit of a miracle, and Greg's always liked her - gently-spoken, warm and calm, a wonderful listener, patience of a saint and a brilliant mum to the girls. She's a primary school teacher; it shows. Greg's not sure how she's coped with Andy all this time. 

His heart tightens as he reads the text. 

 

_ Hello Greg... So sorry if overstepping. I wanted to reach out. Half a story from Andy but I get the feeling you have been badly treated... He's been prickly lately and quick to say things he shouldn't. His search for work isn't going so well. No excuse for him to be awful to you. Any chance we can try to fix things? Have coffee or dinner maybe. Hope you are well. Best wishes Lizzie xxx _

 

Greg's thumbs hovers over 'reply'. He wants to say yes - get Andy over here, let him meet Mycroft, see how happy he's made Greg - but he's not sure he should storm ahead without asking Mycroft's advice. 

Andy was harsh. Greg's not heard from his twin since their horrific conversation on the phone, when he'd just been outed by... her. It didn't go well. 

This isn't something he wants to fuck up twice.

He pockets his phone, telling himself he'll ask Mycroft about it tonight, and heads back to Scotland Yard.

 

*

 

Tiredness starts to kick in at three. By four Greg's seriously feeling the lack of sleep, and he only makes it to five on the back of a sizeable espresso.

"Oi." 

Greg looks up from his paperwork, dazed. It takes his eyes a second to focus and find Sally in the door.

His sergeant smiles, holding out his coat.

"You're knackered," she says. "Go home. Get some proper sleep."

Part of Greg's brain is still deep in the swamp of the trial. He's about to protest that he can't possibly leave at five when they have so much work to do - before he remembers that the Fentons are now behind bars, and he's only got to finish these invoices by Friday. It's still Monday. He's done most of them.

"Maybe I will," he says, as Sally fetches his coat across to him. "Barely slept..."

"I know. You sure you don't want us to look into it?"

"No, s'fine... Mycroft's people are handling it. Honestly, they've got more resources and better people than us. I'm sure he'll tell me when it's time for the flashing light and the handcuffs."

Sally smiles, her eyes bright. "Should be fun. Arrest the guy yourself."

As Greg pulls on his coat, he gives her a sideways glance of tired amusement.  _ Thieving scoundrel, I am arresting you under suspicion of frightening my cat and mistreating my partner's fantasy maps. What say you in your defence? _

"Have a better night," Sally says, with a pat on the shoulder. "Give my best to Mycroft."

As he heads down in the lift to the car park, coat over his arm, Greg finds himself thinking. He wonders why Sally can say something like that, and it sounds perfectly normal - just a friendly goodbye for the day - but the same thing from Stringer would make his skin crawl.

_ Maybe it's time to admit I just don't like the guy,  _ he decides, letting himself into his car. 

He'd better pick up food on the way home. He's not been in his own flat for a few days, and what little he had in the fridge is likely to have gone off. 

At least they'll get a good night's sleep there. 

Nobody will be housebreaking in a flat on the ninth floor.

 

*

 

By the great blessing of Anthea’s intervention, Mycroft is authorized to work from home. Officially, it’s on the off-chance the burglar was indeed some manner of assassin- the team needs time to process all the evidence, the surveillance that follows the man’s movements.

Intriguingly, he’s far more adept than a usual burglar at avoiding the network of cameras dotting London. Cameras that cover nearly everywhere. 

There’s no way that sort of tactical retreat, particularly in the face of an armed MI-5 response team moving into position, is simple luck. Yet the items taken… fail to make sense.

The folders from the panic room could have been accidental, certainly, something close at hand to run off with. From his office, the missing items feel more… pointed. He spent the morning taking the inventory- all of his work papers had been locked away in the safe, of course, alongside his laptop, and Mycroft is inclined to a tidy space- very little resides in his home office that isn’t locked up when he isn’t using it, and he keeps it rather spartan on the whole to eliminate unnecessary distractions. 

Despite his precautions, there are still items missing. Five of his ambiguous business cards, a pen, and a bottle of good whiskey. In the kitchen, a notepad Greg had used to remind them about groceries is missing. 

There’s signs of other activity- the framed picture of himself, Gregory, and Marmalade that brings the only hint of joy to the space was flipped facedown. The locks to his desk were tested, and fortunately not found wanting. 

It’s all a bit baffling.

Over lunch, Anthea makes him go upstairs and attempt a brief nap. He lays there, mind churning, trying to think of any possible motive, any real reason for the breakin.

Nothing comes to mind.

He tells himself he’s just tired. When his mind is rested, he’ll come up with something useful. Still, he can’t stop it. His thoughts are racing as he idly strokes Marmalade, who has come to take advantage of the stationary human. Humans laying quietly make the best beds.

At least one of them is napping.

Anthea vanishes for a while in the afternoon, though as soon as she returns he determines she’s been to Gregory’s flat.

“Reviewing security concerns?”  _ Please don’t tell me I cannot go to him tonight. I couldn’t bear it. _

“Double-checking. I also set up some small supplies for Marmalade. I am not hauling a used litter box back and forth in my car, thank you, she can have one in each.”

It’s gone six when Anthea gets the car to bring him around to Gregory’s. Cleaners will be in his home tonight, collecting any last bits of evidence and then evicting every trace of MI-5 boot from the carpet.

He’s glad Anthea will be supervising that. Mycroft doesn’t think he trusts himself not to scream at them for crawling over everything, not with his nerves still frayed. She puts him out feet from Gregory’s door and waits as he goes inside, no doubt planning to watch the (new and clandestinely installed) cameras she’d had placed on the route to Gregory’s apartment to make sure he gets all the way there.

Marmalade is chirping quite excitedly by the time they reach the door, knowing quite well where they are. “Yes, your grace, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of fuss ready for you,” he says as he lifts a hand to ring the buzzer.

 

*

 

The door opens before he gets the chance.

Greg appears, grinning in jeans and a soft grey jumper. There's a tea-towel tossed over one shoulder, and his hair is still damp from the shower. 

"Hey..." he soothes, looping his arms around Mycroft's waist, and drawing him into a hug. He rests his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. "Started worrying they wouldn't let you come... I've got dinner on. Hope you're in the mood for garlic bread. I made too much."

Over Mycroft's shoulder, he smiles at the waiting car and drops Anthea a wink.  _ I've got him, chick. I'll take the watch until the morning. _

"Come in," he says, and reaches to take Marmalade's cat box. "Hey, princess! You've come to visit me, have you? Well, that's good, because I've got a huge tin of tuna upstairs, and somebody needs to eat it for me..."

Greg's flat is tidy and warm; the pillar candles are already lit beside the TV. The smell of garlic bread and red wine waft from the kitchen corner, and the docked iPod by the kettle plays slow and easy music. Greg's bed has been made with fresh sheets, the laptop waiting on the pillows ready for Netflix. Marmalade's various toys have been arranged beneath the coffee table for her - a little pile of feathered mice and balls with bells. There's been a visible effort to make things calm and welcoming.

Once Mycroft is through the door, Greg discreetly locks it behind him. 

He then attends to the clasp of Marmalade's cat box. She trills as she emerges, stretching and twirling her tail; the smell of dinner lifts her little pink nose to the air.

"What can I get you to drink?" Greg asks, taking wine glasses down from a cupboard. He grins as he leans on the counter. "I've got red and white in. Take your pick."

 

*

 

A slow smile creeps onto Mycroft’s face as he surveys the room. “Gregory, you’ve… outdone yourself.”

It’s quite moving, that all this effort has been made for  _ him _ . Not to mention terribly romantic. A surge of emotions slides through Mycroft’s heart, combined with his still shaky nerves it’s almost enough to threaten a bit of open weepiness. 

_ No- we will not be crying over a romantic dinner.  _

“Garlic bread, candles, and wine. Are you trying to seduce me, Gregory?” It is, perhaps, a weak jest, but it diverts his overwhelmed emotions enough to manage not to become teary. 

He steps over to the counter and plants a firm kiss on his lover’s lips, saying what he’s feeling with the sense of claiming and a swipe of his tongue.

_ I love you. _

Mycroft permits himself a satisfied smile as he pulls back.

“Red sounds lovely, thank you.”

 

*

 

Greg grins into the kiss, abandoning the wine glasses on the side in favour of carding his fingers through Mycroft's hair, scrunching it fondly, dishevelling it.  _ Mine.  _ It's the evening now, and Mycroft belongs to him. No more neat and tidy hair.

The tie is coming off, too.

As Greg slides it open, smiling, he holds his lover's gaze. A softness warms his eyes.

"Best assume I'm always trying to seduce you," he says, amused. "Much easier." He slips the tie free, tossing it onto the sofa without looking. "Let's call it a long-game seduction... so... glass of wine, shower if you like. Dinner. Few episodes of something, cuddle up in bed. Then... well, we'll see if my garlic bread and candles have worked."

He grins, his eyes bright.

"Sound alright?"

Marmalade, having checked that the two rooms of flat are both in good order, has chosen herself a toy. The silk snake she just found on the sofa is now being savaged fondly as she squirms around on her back, fighting it off. 

 

*

 

Mycroft can feel his most stubborn curl unfurl under Gregory’s hands and coil onto his forehead. He would protest, but it would be quite disingenuous considering how much he enjoys ruffling Gregory’s hair.

“Mmm. You’ve planned well, hellion.” He curls his fingers into Greg’s shirt and pulls gently, claiming an additional kiss. “I suppose there will be plenty of time to test your theory.”

Successfully, if Mycroft has anything to say about it.

“Do you require any assistance? I could ready her ladyship’s meal, if you are still finishing up…?” He’s never been good at simply sitting and waiting, even if he does like to watch Gregory work in the kitchen.

 

*

 

Greg melts a little into the kiss, always rather weak to being pulled. He lets Mycroft go only with reluctance, and reaches for the wine to uncork it.

"Ours just needs a few minutes for the garlic bread to crisp up... s'ready whenever you are. You hungry? Marmalade's tuna is in the bowl there - you know where the tin opener is, right?"

Marmalade - very familiar with the sound of a tin opener - appears on the sofa as Mycroft prepares her dinner. She stands up with her paws on the back, watching his progress closely with small and hopeful sniffs. 

Mycroft's tie is now collected beneath the coffee table with the rest of her toys, a little chewed.

Greg places a glass of wine at Mycroft's elbow, then steps slyly into the warmth of his body. He hugs Mycroft gently with one arm from behind, kissing his shoulder.

"Did you have a good day?" he asks softly, and he takes a sip of wine.

 

*

 

“I am now.” Mycroft relaxes into Greg’s chest, feeling his lover’s warmth drift over him.

“Simply… odd. The whole of it.” He shakes his head. “Your grocery list was worth pilfering, apparently. It was challenging to get much done when all of that kept… coming back to mind.”

Marmalade evidences her displeasure with the slow pace of her food’s arrival with a loud mrow from the couch.  _ Excuse me. Food please. _

Mycroft sighs, smiling, and turns to bestow the bowl upon her most benevolent fluffy majesty. “The most valuable thing they’ve got ahold of is a fountain pen. I spent the day trying to work out the logic of it, but- nothing’s coming to mind.”

 

*

 

It's a little too easy for Greg's brain to slip into work mode. If he was dealing with this professionally, he'd be somewhat concerned - the sort of housebreaker who has the skills to get through a security door usually goes to places with a plan. It doesn't make sense for them to pilfer strange and random things. 

He's seen things like this before, where it's all a bit of a distraction. It takes the householders several months to realise something valuable  _ is  _ gone - they just didn't notice at the time, too busy bewildered by the loss of odd shoes and kitchen scissors.

But then, if Mycroft's done a full inventory...

Taking another drink, Greg tells himself this isn't his job. It's not his world. Mycroft's people are dealing with it - and really, it's nothing to do with him. There's nothing he can contribute here.

"M'sorry," he murmurs, and kisses Mycroft's shoulder. "I know it must be preying on your mind. I guess that as long as they upgrade your security, and the intruder can't come back... that's what matters, right?"

As he takes the tea-towel off his shoulder, opens the oven and eases in the tray of garlic bread, he offers,

"Could've been someone off their head, love... high on something. Just wandering room-to-room and picking up things that meant something in their mind."

 

*

 

“Yes. Perhaps.” Mycroft chews the inside of his lip. He can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s missed something. Something obvious.

_ I don’t miss things. _

“They’ll be cleaning up tonight, handling the upgrades at the same time. I won’t be surprised if Anthea’s put in for something that turns into a self-propelling tank with armed missiles.” He takes a sip of wine, watching Marmalade dig into her tuna. “She’s a bit wroth about the entire situation.”

The scent of the garlic bread catches in the air, and Mycroft fondly tucks himself against Greg’s side, resting his cheek on his lover’s broad shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, darling, you’ve made this wonderful dinner and I’m fixating on all this miserableness.” His lips trace over the curve of Greg’s neck. “My apologies. I haven’t even asked about your own day. Is everyone behaving themselves?”

 

*

 

Greg wraps an arm around Mycroft, smiling as his neck is kissed and trying not to glow with the praise. 

"It's fine, love. I understand. Break-ins are scary... s'normal to feel very uneasy." He decides to get hold of one of the victim support team tomorrow, and see what they usually advise for victims of burglary. If there’s any way he can support Mycroft through this, and make things easier, he wants to know about it. "Just wish I had some answers for you... but you can talk to me about it all you want."

He takes a drink, rolling the day's events through his mind. 

"Very little going on, to be honest... team are all settling back into the real world. Nearly fell asleep at my desk a few times. I, erm... got a text from Lizzie."

He adds, with a slightly awkward glance at the fridge door, "Andy's Lizzie."

A family trip to a theme park is displayed there in magnets - a thrill ride photograph of the five of them. The two little girls at first seem to be clinging in delighted panic to their parents, a laughing father in the front and a screaming mother in the second row, her face obscured by the wild spray of her dark blonde curls - then an unmoved looking uncle alone in the backseat. 

Only observation by someone close to the family would reveal that it is Greg in the front with his niece, not Andy. 

"She... wondered how I am, I think. Asked about maybe meeting up to talk. I don’t know if it means Andy wants to, but... I don’t know. Lizzie’s always been a good friend. She wants the best for everyone."

 

*

 

_ I like her better than your brother already. _ “That sounds promising,” Mycroft offers.

“Perhaps she’s gotten him to see a bit of sense.” 

That could go either way, really. Mycroft has pledged to himself that he must behave, when meeting Andy, even if what he’s heard makes him want to whack his lover’s twin upside the head quite firmly. 

“She is a teacher, yes? Many of them seem to have more sense than the rest of the populace. And patience. Resisting the urge to drop some of their charges into the nearest lake must be difficult.”

It is, frankly, a miracle that none of them had even left Sherlock in a bog. 

“Do you wish to meet with them?” It would be understandable if he didn’t, if Greg needed more time to process the horrid things Andy had said. 

 

*

 

"She's good at making Andy see sense," Greg admits, with a faint smile. He glances down into his wine glass. "I think I want to meet them. I don't know, it's... I don't want to cut Andy off. That'd be crazy. I'm not going to be able to make much peace with him, if he's still being funny about it all... but... well, Lizzie wouldn't contact me if he was still fuming."

There's a chance, and it seems like that's worth taking. Maybe Andy just needed time to get his head around it. 

Greg's not looking forward to the moment he walks into a room with Mycroft, and finds Andy waiting there. 

He hopes his brother will be polite. If they're lucky, Andy will spend a few minutes with Mycroft and realise how much he loves Greg, and how much Greg loves him - and it'll be fine. 

Quiet for a moment, Greg pulls the corner of his lip between his teeth. He glances up at Mycroft.

"Would you come with me?" he asks. "It's... I mean... I can tell him until I'm blue in the face that I'm happy. He's more likely to listen if I show him."

 

*

 

“Of course, love.”

Mycroft keeps to himself that actually  _ seeing _ Greg with another man may make it worse. Bigotry does not always play by rules of sense and logic. Yet he must trust Gregory to know his own brother best.

“Whatever you need.” 

He doesn’t like seeing Greg so broken up about Andy, especially with everything he’s heard about Andy’s charming personality. Lord knows Sherlock has caused Mycroft enough grief of a different color, and he’s well acquainted with the pain of an intractable nature in a sibling.

It’s worse, somehow, to see Greg dealing with it.

Pulling Greg closer, he bestows a kiss right where he’s biting his lip. “It was quite decent of her to reach out. Your nieces have a good woman to look up to.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart squeezes a little at the kiss. He returns it softly, settles close to Mycroft, and put his arms around his lover's waist.

"She's a lovely woman," he says. "Andy - doesn't deserve her, really. Don't think he realises how much he owes her. One of those patient people, you know?"

He can hear Marmalade happily eating her tuna, little scoffing noises from near their feet. It makes him smile as he glances down to watch her.  _ Glad you're both here. Feels like we're safe for the night. _

"I'll give Lizzie a call," he says, quietly, and lays his head on Mycroft's shoulder. "See if they're free at the weekend."

 

*

 

“Good.”

It feels comfortable here, arms wrapped about each other, dinner on and the cat happily fed. Mycroft can feel the stress of the break-in easing away. Odd, that for all the security at his own residence, Gregory’s feels far more comfortable. 

Right now, it’s more like home.

_ Because Gregory is here.  _

He pulls a little tighter into the embrace, kissing Gregory’s forehead. “I love you.”

 

*

 

In a decrepit basement flat not far from St. Regent’s park, Sherlock Holmes lays out his newfound stash of cocaine. This isn’t  _ his _ flat, technically, but a vacant one he can easily reach without gaining the attention of Mycroft’s watchers, who frankly seem to be slacking lately. He’d hardly needed to evade a tail more than twice this week.

_ Getting complacent, brother mine. _

Well, that is all for the best, really. It’d given him ample time to test the purity of the sample. It’s not the best he’s seen, but it will suffice. 

The task the woman had given him had been boring, of course.  _ Obvious. _ Hardly worth his time at all. Except for the cocaine.

_ Yes, _ the husband was cheating, of course he was. All the receipts, emails, etc, pointed to that. She seemed to just need someone else to confirm it. Could’ve had the same from any friend, or the policeman brother-in-law she’d mentioned who so helpfully supplied the cocaine.

She’d tried to come onto him then, praising and flirting. Touching.  _ Predictable. Boring. _ She was nearly impossible to read herself, which would almost have made it worthwhile just to see if that held when she was nude, but Sherlock does not as a rule have a strong interest in redheads. Or women. Or  _ people _ , really.

The work comes first.

And, currently, the work will be well-fueled by the cocaine he’s earned.  _ Much thanks, Ms. Lestrade.  _ So many experiments to run, and he’d like his mind at full power.

He readies the needle and smiles. 

Tonight will be extremely productive after all.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Greg leaves the plates in the sink; they can wait until tomorrow. He tops up Marmalade's dry crispies and her water, and arranges her soft bed in a corner of the kitchen. It's warm there near the oven. She'll be cosy for the night.

As she slinks around the counter to investigate the sound of fresh crispies in her bowl, Greg fondly runs a hand along her back. 

"There's a good girl..."

Marmalade chirps around the catnip mouse she's brought. She puts it down beside the bowl, and settles herself to eat. 

Greg collects the half-finished bottle of wine from the side, flicks off the light in the kitchen, and makes his way over to the bed.

"Early night?" he murmurs, topping up the two glasses on the bedside table. "Feel like we could do with it."

 

*

 

“I suppose a decent amount of sleep would not go amiss.”

Mycroft undoes the top few buttons of his shirt- the better for cuddling Gregory without hindrance. He drapes one leg over his lover as soon as he’s in bed, still perhaps a bit clingier than he’d otherwise be, though he’d not like to admit it.

“Has there been another episode of that baking show with the cakes?”

Cooking shows have never been something that held his interest previously, but he likes to look at the one about cakes that Gregory introduced him to. Not because he wishes to eat them- no, that would be a slippery slope indeed- but so he can imagine the flavor combinations, many of which are quite smart. 

Besides, the hosts are quite entertaining as well. 

He nuzzles his nose beneath Greg’s jaw, feels the pulse in his lips.

“Or were you thinking to forgo any television this evening, my garlic bread Lothario?”

 

*

 

"Tuesday," Greg murmurs, as he runs a gentle hand down Mycroft's back. "S'on tomorrow." 

He lets his head rest back against the pillows, eyes closing for a quiet moment of contentment. Nothing in the world ever makes him feel like this - just resting somewhere comfortable with their arms around each other. It's a soft, domestic sort of happiness which never comes at any other time.

"Think I might fall asleep if we're watching something." His pulse quickens as Mycroft nuzzles into his neck. He draws a slower breath, and his chest rises with it. "First time I've been called a lothario... 'specially a garlic bread one."

 

*

 

“Clearly not enough people have tasted your garlic bread.” 

Mycroft parts his lips, lets his kiss become a bit more open-mouthed, not rushing anything but simply lingering together, comfortable with each other in the most intimate ways.

“I suppose they mustn’t be allowed now. There would be far too much temptation.”

He drapes an arm across Greg’s chest possessively, enjoying his lover’s warmth. The faint scent of garlic and red wine lingering in the fabric of his shirt just makes it more cozy, in the way mundane things often are.

It doesn’t even occur to him that he hasn’t once had his mother’s invasive voice in his head, bemoaning that he’s eating bread at all.

“You’ve been very sweet to me today, Gregory. I appreciate it.” He squeezes, just a little, tightening the embrace.

“I appreciate you.”

 

*

 

"Garlic bread is just for you." Greg reaches down to his chest, wrapping his fingers gently around Mycroft's hand. He lifts it to his lips. "So are early bedtimes, and baking shows in bed."

He kisses each of Mycroft's fingers in turn, then back along his knuckles.

"S'easy to look after you," he murmurs, and kisses Mycroft's palm. "I hope you know that. Making you happy makes me happy."

He kisses the inside of Mycroft's wrist, brushing his mouth with care over the sensitive skin - then as he follows along Mycroft's forearm, dotting tender kisses, a careful shift tips Mycroft over onto his back. Greg eases on top of him, between his legs, and continues the sly path of his kisses all the way up Mycroft's bicep, across his collarbones and under his jaw.

"I love you," he murmurs against his lover's neck. He lets his five o'clock stubble stroke Mycroft's skin. "You're so important to me. All I want lately is to take care of you. I just... need to do that. I need you to feel warm and safe and know you're loved. I need that more than I need anything else in this world."

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a quiet hum of easy enjoyment. “You make me very happy, Gregory.”

He relaxes into the bed and into Greg’s kisses, the first anticipatory tendrils of arousal fluttering through his core, growing more obvious when the brush of Greg’s stubble makes him exhale in a soft moan. Tilting his throat open, he bares the vulnerable skin to further touches.

“You take such good care of me, love.”

His hands wrap Greg’s hips, stroking upward over the line of muscles, then down again to the meat of his arse. 

“I am feeling particularly warm and safe at the moment.”  

Deft fingers steadily pull on Greg’s shirt, extricating it from his trousers so Mycroft can get to the soft skin of his lower back. It’s quite warm, in fact, warmer still as he slides those same fingers up and down under the shirt.

_ Comfy. Mine. _

“And very, very loved.”

 

*

 

_ Fuck, your hands... _

Mycroft's touch has only become more enjoyable as the weeks have passed. There's a familiarity to his lover's hands that makes Greg feel supremely secure. Even the gentle brush of fingers across his back is enough to make his breath tighten.

As Mycroft strokes him, he sweeps his mouth slowly along the column of his lover's throat. He lets the warm soft flat of his tongue soothe the scrape of his stubble; he follows the path he's drawn, all the way up to Mycroft's ear.

"Let me look after you," he whispers, as he reaches for the remaining buttons of Mycroft's shirt.  _ Too much fabric. Too many clothes. Not enough of you.  _ "Let me make you feel good, darlin'... switch your head onto standby..."

He takes Mycroft's earlobe slyly between his teeth as he undoes the buttons, at the same time tugging and teasing with his mouth - little pulls, flicks with his tongue. He makes it slightly wetter than he needs to; he wants Mycroft to hear this.

"What can I do for you, love? What d'you need right now?"

 

*

 

Mycroft’s fingers coil in, leaving firm red marks in their wake. The ministrations at his ear earn a breathy noise from the back of his throat and a shift in his thighs, rubbing against Gregory and making his interest fully apparent.

He’d considered, earlier in the day, whether he might like to recreate the activities of the prior night. Gregory had been beautifully obedient for him, and he’d had  _ plans- _

But every time he thinks of that, and all he’d wanted to do, he can’t quite separate it from the alarm and the panic. The thought that someone was coming to kill him. That Gregory or Marmalade might be injured. Or worse.

Mycroft is in dire need of a palate cleanser.

He lets his back arch, responding instinctually to every sensation by his ear.  _ Just feeling. Let me feel you. _

“Take me,” he breathes, heart rate picking up even as the words come out in pounding anticipation. “Claim me.”

He flushes slightly, still unused to asking for this particular set of needs.

“Hold me down again? I- rather enjoyed that.”

 

*

 

_ 'Take me. Claim me.' _

As their erections rub, Greg ghosts his lips along Mycroft's jaw. His head floods with thoughts: Mycroft arching underneath him, panting; those slender wrists held down against the bed; his cock nuzzling through tight heat and slickness.

It takes his breath.

"I love you," he whispers, pulling open the last button. He spreads the fabric and strokes his hands up Mycroft's torso, gliding with love across his stomach and chest. His skin feels like silk. He's beautiful. "I enjoyed it, too..." 

Something about this new sharing of dominance is stirring heat through Greg's soul. He can't quite put his finger on it. Like all of the intimacy he's shared with Mycroft, it affects him at a level far deeper than bodily pleasure. Mycroft's love and care have nourished him enough now to give the same in return - to be strong when strength is needed.

As he tends to Mycroft's belt, he lets his neck-kisses grow a little more restless - just the edges of his teeth, just gently.

"You want to be mine for tonight, sweetheart?" he murmurs, easing down the zip. "Want to belong to me for a while?"

He cups Mycroft's cock through his open trousers, squeezing; he lets his teeth dig in a little.

"Tell me?"

 

*

 

“Mmhm. I love you too.” Mycroft sighs, squirming under the brush of teeth, gasping when his cock is so firmly cupped. Lord, how fortunate has he been to find someone he can actually  _ trust _ for this? Trust with caring for him,  _ taking _ him-

The cat cafe deserves another donation.

“Yours. I wish to be all yours.”

He slips his hands around to make a start on Gregory’s buttons and bare  them equally against each other, sharing the heat of themselves chest against chest. His skin is still flushed, the pink sprawling amongst his freckles and his eyes growing darker by the second.

“However you would like to take me. So long as I am yours, I will be happy.”

 

*

 

_ All mine. However I'd like.  _

Greg eases back from Mycroft's neck to watch soft-eyed as his buttons are opened. He bites his lip a little, and as the shirt comes undone, he shrugs it back with a roll of his shoulders. He slides it off his arms and onto the floor beside the bed.

"All I want right now?" He holds Mycroft's gaze as he undoes his own jeans. "I just... want to  _ fuck. _ Just be inside you. Feel you wrapped around me. Just move slow, and take it easy, and... fuck. I want bedtime sex. Does that even make sense?"

He leans low to kiss Mycroft's tummy, trailing his mouth down to his navel.

"I want to ease you off to sleep," he whispers, and curls his hands in Mycroft's loosened trousers. He coaxes them down, kissing his way down Mycroft's body as he goes, murmuring against his hips and thighs. "Want to watch you come on my cock. I want to clean you up, and cuddle you as you fall asleep. Easy sex. Sleepy sex."

As he eases off the foot of the bed, dropping Mycroft's trousers to the floor, he takes the opportunity to get rid of his jeans. When he crawls back to Mycroft he's stripped down to his boxers, and his nose and mouth go at once into Mycroft's crotch, nuzzling the bulge of his cock through his underwear and mouthing softly at the fabric.

"You had a bad day," he soothes, gazing up the bed with his eyes dark and soft. "I want to fuck you all better."

He reaches for the waistband of Mycroft's underwear, gently pulling it down.

"My gorgeous Mycroft," he breathes, and strokes his tongue across the head of Mycroft's cock. He loves Mycroft's scent - that warm, soft, animal smell. "Mhm. So hard already... need me, love?"

 

*

 

Every touch, every statement of intent, gets a moan. Mycroft couldn’t be happier or more relaxed in his lover’s hands, even when his cock jumps in eager response.

“Yes- yes, please, Gregory- oh, your  _ mouth- _ ”

Mycroft had not been expecting the phrase  _ fuck you all better _ to enter the list of things Gregory can say that will instantly turn him on, but he shall be forced to add it now.  _ Christ.  _ Not to mention the easy lapping he’s receiving, just enough to set him on the path to being utterly senseless without tipping him over into urgency.

“Mmm- you’re so good to me, love.”

His lover’s going to fuck him, and hold him, and ease him to sleep and all will be right with the world.  He cards a hand through the thick silver of Gregory’s hair, gently pulling. It’s just affection, just making his pleasure known in as many ways as he can. 

“So good, Gregory. I love you….”

 

*

 

A low moan eases from Greg's throat. He exhales as he nuzzles into the pull of Mycroft's hand, his eyes closing over, contentment washing through his heart.

"I love you, too."  _ Love how easy that's become. How often.  _ "Love you to pieces..."

He frees Mycroft of his underwear, dropping it over the side of the bed.  _ Want you comfortable, darlin'. Want you perfectly relaxed for me.  _ Settling close, he reaches beneath Mycroft's thighs and tugs him firmly but gently down the bed, taking Mycroft's legs over his shoulders, hands wrapping possessively at his waist. 

Greg hums, pleased; he rubs his cheek against Mycroft's cock. 

"Mine," he murmurs, sliding the wet flat of his tongue along the shaft. At the head his tongue points and coils, gathering Mycroft's cock against his open lips, surrounding him with the promise of heat and wetness - then slyly letting him go again. He keeps his eyes on Mycroft's face as he laps for a while, the same velvety stroke of sensation against his frenulum. 

Greg's hands flex at Mycroft's waist as he finally slides his mouth around his cock. 

He takes his time about it, sinking down inch-by-inch while maintaining decadent eye contact. Mycroft has always been incredibly satisfying to go down on. He seems to fit perfectly in Greg's mouth - just big enough to feel full and a little muffled, but with room to rub his tongue against the underside. As he slides his lips slowly up down, he winds his tongue in settling little patterns; he keeps his eyes turned up the bed. 

Each time he comes too close to establishing a rhythm, he eases all the way back to the top and gently licks for a while. 

_ I could do this all night,  _ his eyes say, as he bathes the very tip of Mycroft's cock with his tongue. He wraps an indulgent swirl around the head.  _ Just watch me, love. _

 

*

 

“Oh,  _ fuck-” _

Never has the rub of bristly stubble felt quite as raw and arousing as it is against Mycroft’s cock. He shudders, hand twitching in Greg’s hair, tugging the silvery locks he loves so dearly. And then there’s his tongue, soothing and teasing and never letting him get the peace of a steady rhythm.

His thighs draw taut, ankles flexing, calves drifting alternately between the air and resting against Greg’s back depending on the degree of stimulation. It’s amazing how responsive he’s letting himself be, simply enjoying and not worrying about guiding the rhythm of the evening. Trusting that Gregory has everything in hand.

“Hellion, you are far too skilled at that,” Mycroft pants when he has the breath to, eyes half-glazed with desire as they meet their dark opposite down the bed.

He’s throbbing with desire, his body aching for more, wanting the chase and the climax, but Mycroft would rather wallow in it. Let Gregory bring it to him.

“Mm, you look so beautiful, love….”

 

*

 

Greg's mouth curves against Mycroft's cock.

"You should get me photographed like this," he murmurs, only half-joking. "Big black-and-white canvas in your reception room. Something to chat to the prime minister about when she next pops round." 

His hands grip gently at Mycroft's waist, then release, sliding back beneath his hips.

"Carry a picture in your wallet," Greg muses. "Cushions printed... travel mug..." 

His hands slip up the back of Mycroft's thighs, coaxing them to bend for him, opening Mycroft wide. At the same time, Greg's nose trails down his cock, over his balls with a few gentle licks, then lower. 

"Get your mum a set of coasters for Christmas," he murmurs between Mycroft's legs, and swipes his tongue across the tight ring of muscle. "See if she still thinks I sound like a nice boy..."

His tongue points, swirling slowly around Mycroft's puckered entrance. He lets saliva pool in his mouth and then paints it in wet sweeps, licking, soothing, drawing patterns that come to mind - stars, spirals, initials, little zigzags. He rubs the tip of his nose against the smooth stretch of skin up to Mycroft's balls, nuzzling it in rhythm as he works with his tongue, exhaling out warm puffs of breath.

It's some time before he even starts to press inside. The gentle nudges are interspersed with flicks and patterns, steadily cosying a little deeper each time, coaxing the muscle to soften, persuading Mycroft's body to let him in.

 

*

 

“I’ve certainly considered it,” Mycroft breathes, endlessly comfortable. He has, without doubt, imagined what it might be like to have nice portraits of Gregory in several mildly debauched positions. Something black and white and tasteful. Well, mostly tasteful.

But Mycroft would know how they were shot, and that could be especially thrilling.

He stretches restlessly as Gregory moves him, eyeing the change with an escalating blush of deepening red. It’s not so much the act, though it is terribly intimate, but that Gregory, unprompted, wants this for him.

“Oh, god-” his head falls back, back arching, one hand clasping into the sheets. “Refrain from bringing up my mother when you’re- oh good lord-”

It’s pleasant and relaxing and devoted and then he really begins to feel the burn of the mild stubble Gregory has developed over the day, starkly contrasted to the gentle press of wet and warm inward. 

“ _ Fuck-  _ you  _ utter _ hellion-”

He pulls his thighs closer to his stomach, opening himself further, letting Gregory ease him as he likes.

“Next vacation I may- oh god- forbid you from shaving-”

 

*

 

The response is an interested noise from somewhere between his thighs. Greg continues his lazy exploration without any change of pace, but with a marked uptake in the amount of chin-rubbing and ensuing rasps of stubble. He begins to tongue Mycroft's hole a little more firmly, now easing from licking into pressing, keeping his mouth wet as he works. He breaks away from time to time, to kiss and gently bite Mycroft's thighs, or up to nuzzle at the base of his cock for a while, mouthing softly at his balls - but always returns.

He stays where he is until Mycroft feels soft and loose against his mouth, until he can mix his slow tongue-fucking with fingers and feel little resistance. 

He then laves a last lick, from Mycroft's entrance all the way to the tip of his cock. His fingers slickly withdraw.

"Flip onto your stomach," he murmurs, his eyes dark and his pupils huge. His lips are flushed from their work. "Get comfy."

 

*

 

Panting openly and looking already quite debauched with sweat and the further disarray squirming about in the sheets has done to his hair, Mycroft does as he’s bid. His cock is leaking, eager and slick with saliva, and the friction of turning over and making contact with the mattress is enough to make him gasp.

_ Oh, Gregory, what you’ve done to me…. _

Every bit of skin Greg’s bit of stubble have touched feels like it’s alight, the places where his thighs have been kissed and nipped are fresh-made brands. Mycroft is keenly aware of every nerve ending, of every fiber he’s touched, like they’ve been specially marked. 

_ His and his and his- _

His legs spread, subconsciously, parting for Gregory to make use of as he will. 

“Love you,” he breathes, cheek against the bed, shooting a glance behind him full of warmth and affection.  

 

*

 

Greg's body covers Mycroft's gently, easing his weight onto his lover with care.

"Love you," he rumbles against the back of Mycroft's neck, and brushes his mouth across the soft skin there. His hand reaches out for the bedside drawer. "Love you so much, darlin'..."

The lube is easy to find; the soft snap of the lid makes Greg's cock twitch in anticipation. He fills his palm with the gel, reaches down and audibly shivers as he coats himself, biting into his groan. It's hard to keep control with Mycroft underneath him like this, legs spread and cheek flat to the bed. He pulls his hand away before this ends far too soon, leans a little more of his weight onto Mycroft, and guides himself carefully into place.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispers in Mycroft's ear. Slowly he begins to press home, breaching Mycroft's body - licked soft but still tight, still resistant. "F-Fuck, love... fuck, you feel good..."

 

*

 

Even the weight of Gregory against his back is comforting. Mycroft’s hands curl in the sheets, rucking the fabric into his fists. The pressure is not free of pain, even with lubricant, but it’s bearable- and absolutely worth it. 

“Oh- God, yes-”

Mycroft’s arms curl in, elbows tucking closer to his chest, eyes fluttering shut, cock throbbing with  _ want _ beneath him. Beneath the cover of Greg’s legs his toes curl, redirecting the urge to clench so he can relax, relax and take  _ more- _

Gregory is careful with him, steady and slow but pressing through all the same.  _ Fuck- fuck, oh fuck, so full- _

He doesn’t bother to restrain his cries- he wants Gregory to know that he’s  _ feeling _ this, feeling  _ him. _ “Oh yes, love, fill me- give me all of it- make me yours-”

 

*

 

Mycroft's cries are heaven. Greg nuzzles into his neck, shivering, his heart pounding with the intensity of this moment. It's incredible that he even gets to witness this pleasure, let alone cause it. He loves hearing Mycroft take. Mycroft never sounds like this at any other time.

_ Mine.  _

_ Just for me. Special. Trusting me, needing me -  _

He fights the urge to speed up and slide deep. It makes his muscles shake, but he wants to draw this out. He wants to make it good. As he eases deeper, he curls a hand at the side of Mycroft's hip and holds him, steadying him. 

When he's settled, the hand glides up the side of Mycroft's body. It brushes along his arm, follows down to his hand and takes hold of it, knotting their fingers. Lowering the rest of his weight onto Mycroft with care, Greg catches his other hand and kisses the back of his neck, soft and gentle brushes of lips. It makes him feel protective, covering Mycroft this way - sex like a bear-hug from behind as he pins Mycroft's hands to the bed.

"Ready?" he rumbles, softly. He tries a first gentle roll of his hips - barely moving yet, just testing the resistance. A shudder ripples down Greg's spine at the feeling. "God, darlin'... fuck... you're so tight..." 

His second and third thrusts are just as slow, just easy; his breath catches in his throat.

"Am I too heavy?" he murmurs against the skin behind Mycroft's ear.

 

*

 

“You’re perfect- perfect, Gregory-”

His fingers flex and relax and flex again in Greg’s grip, timed with the low moans that match even these first few shallow thrusts. He likes the weight, really. It’s comforting, knowing how close they are, having all that skin touching skin.

_ Lord, I can’t even move. All his- his to take- _

The angle is vastly different than being on his back with legs wrapped about Greg’s hips. For one thing, he’d had to be more deliberate about his positioning to get the thrusts to brush satisfyingly against his prostate.

This way, however, he hardly needs to do anything at all- even these slow, fairly shallow thrusts are almost right where they need to be. He breathes, willing himself to relax further.

“Oh, love, you feel incredible- so good-”

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck, this is perfect... _

It’s all one movement - one slow, easy, rolling movement, and the pleasure is overwhelming. Cradling Mycroft like this, pinning him while gently and shallowly fucking him, feels so comfortable and incredible Greg could do this all night. He can kiss Mycroft’s neck like this, kiss his shoulder, kiss his ear. The low moans in response send shivers of satisfaction dancing through his blood. 

This is amazing. 

As Mycroft relaxes, Greg can move a little deeper. He doesn’t let his hips snap; he keeps this easy and almost idle, rocking in rhythm. Mycroft feels almost sinfully snug. Fucking him is too good to rush. 

“Like you from behind,” Greg murmurs. “Like you underneath me like this...” 

He strokes his teeth gently over the back of Mycroft’s neck, enjoying the softness of the skin there. 

“Shame my cuffs are in my coat. Kinda wish I had my hands free.”

 

*

 

_ Oh dear lord. _

Even the mention of cuffs in this equation makes Mycroft quiver with a combination of nerves and desire. The nerves make him tighten, just a bit in his core, just enough to make the next press down hurt a bit more in a pleasure-pain way that ripples straight through his cock and makes him moan.  _ Loudly. _

It had been drilled into him, eons ago when he still worked in the field: if anyone is to be restrained it mustn’t be  _ you. _ The rules still applied to his more recent casual liaisons. His position is simply too important.  _ Trust no one.  _

He isn’t quite sure those rules apply to Gregory. Not Gregory, whom he trusts with everything.

Well.  _ Nearly _ everything.

Another groan brings his breath back, washes him over in comfort that relaxes him even further.  _ I could. Perhaps.  _

_ He’d never hurt me. _

“I’ll hold them. I’ll-”  _ Be good? _

_ Christ, isn’t that a thought. _

Mycroft wriggles his hands free and slides them over his head, gripping the nearest pillow. He chances a glance over his shoulder, taking in what he can of Gregory’s lovely sex-flushed face and those sweet dark eyes.

“Better?”

 

*

 

Greg takes a moment to marvel that one man can both be his king, and make him feel like one too. 

This isn't even just love. 

This is more. It's perfect. It's -  _ need.  _ If Mycroft was gone, there would be nothing left. There would be nothing here. When Mycroft is weak, strength rises into Greg like he's drawing it from the centre of the earth. It's just there. It doesn't need to be gathered or summoned. It just floods into him and he knows what to do at once, like the universe made him as part of a pair. 

_ Holy shit.  _

_ Top you twice, and suddenly I'm a demi-god. _

He gazes back into Mycroft's eyes. The smile that lifts his mouth is soft; he nuzzles close, taking a gentle kiss from his lover's lips.

"Perfect," he whispers, and sits back. His fingers glide along Mycroft's sides to his waist. They curl there comfortably, taking a grip which is both gentle and firm. "Keep those hands on the pillow for me, sweetheart." 

He pulls his lip through his teeth; he knows the sort of thing he likes to hear right now. 

"You're doing beautifully," he says, and slowly withdraws to the tip - then glides every inch back inside. His hands tighten on Mycroft's waist, unable to restrain a soft groan of satisfaction. He repeats the motion smoothly, slickly, twice and then again, trying to keep his focus on his breathing. 

The urge to fuck is overpowering. He can't resist. He begins to thrust, shuddering as he sheaths himself a little faster inside Mycroft. He pulls down at Mycroft's waist as he does, encouraging him gently to meet each thrust.  _ Fuck yourself on me, darlin'. Get what you want from me. _

 

*

 

“Oh,  _ fuck-” _

Mycroft wouldn’t be able to let go of the pillow if he tried- he’s hanging on for dear life, clutching it as his mind threatens to blank entirely with each hard thrust colliding directly with his prostate.

No doubt he’s already making a mess of the sheets beneath him- he can feel the dampness of his own leaking cock. “Greg- oh, god-” Greg wants him to push back, he can feel it, and god, yes, he wants to give Gregory whatever he wants right now. He deserves it, with how well he’s taken care of Mycroft today.

He has to brace up a bit on his knees to manage it, arse in the air even though his chest is still on the bed, stretched by the length of his arms. Rocking in time with Greg’s thrusts, forcing them closer, bodies snapping together with sinfully sexual sound, Mycroft is struck by how comfortable he feels like this- open and happy and  _ fucked _ without landing on the negative side of vulnerable.

“Yes, yes,  _ fuck-“  _ he pants, voice hoarse and eager, the head of his cock well stimulated with each brush against the sheets. 

“Mm- fuck me, Gregory, yessss-“

 

*

 

_ Fuck, fuck - yes -  _

The sounds alone drag Greg at dangerous speed through rising swirls of pleasure. Mycroft's panting and gasping is destroying him. It would be breathtakingly easy just to fall, to sink into quick and sharp thrusts and finish this in minutes. 

Greg fortifies his self-control with memories - all the nights Mycroft has kept him on his back, groaning softly for what felt like hours. This kind of trusting intimacy, when done right, can be as comforting and restful as a warm bath - Greg wants that for Mycroft. He wants his lover to enjoy those same comforts he so often gives to Greg. He begins to alter his rhythm with care, guiding his focus to his own breathing whenever the tightness in his stomach grows too much. After some time, there comes a point he needs to pause and simply stroke Mycroft's back for a while, brushing up and down with his fingertips as he shakes and calms himself back from the brink.

When he starts again, it's with a shudder and a low groan. His fingers curl at Mycroft's hips.

"Darlin'..." The whisper comes tight from Greg's throat; words feel hard to draw together. "Are you close?"

 

*

 

When Greg stills, Mycroft restlessly drags his hands across the pillows like he’s scratching against skin, catching his breath in low, panted moans. He brings his elbows under his chest, giving himself more leverage to help with the rhythm, to more easily push back when Gregory pulls.

“Nnn- yes- getting close, love-”

He is- of course he is, what with how much friction he’s getting from both Greg within and the bed without. It’s harder to hold back on this side of things, not being in charge of the pace or the pressure and simply feeling.

“I want you, beautiful…”

He rocks back slowly, savoring the quiver he can feel in Greg’s hands and those low moans over his head. Somehow it makes him feel more like himself, more confident, like Gregory has ripped all his stress away and the version of himself that is left is vastly improved.

“Let me feel you- feel you filling me- I’ll come when I can feel you-“

 

*

 

Greg's nails dig into Mycroft's skin, a twitch he can't suppress - nor can he keep hold of the groan that hauls itself out of his throat. There's something animal and satisfying about Mycroft giving himself like this, ready to come when Greg wants to. It's primeval and it's glorious. 

The last few scraps of Greg's control fragment in the force of the feeling. His thoughts fly. He's left with a wild blur of urges, all of which drive him deeper and harder and closer, and the slap of their skin is obscene and it's fast and it's  _ good. _ The point of no return lurches out of nowhere. It's gone before Greg can even think to stop.  _ Want to come, need to come - need to - want - you - fuck, fuck - fuckfuckfuck -  _

The gasped stream of "fuckfuckfuck - " hitches into a desperate cry; he ploughs himself deep into his lover's body, his back arching beneath the power of it. His head is thrown back. Sound he can't hear aches from his throat. He can  _ feel  _ himself groaning, pleasure rippling out of his mouth in noises he can't control. His whole body resounds with the need for  _ close, deep, coming,  _ one hand digging into Mycroft's hip and the other thrown out to his shoulder, gripping him in desperation. 

Relief floods through Greg in a wave. It leaves him panting, almost whimpering. One final jerk of his hips forward into Mycroft, and he gasps as the pressure drains through him.

"Ohh, fuck... oh... fuck..." 

 

*

 

Those fingermarks might bruise, and the thought of them lingering through the next few days is oddly pleasing. Mycroft braces himself on one arm to take Gregory deep and fast as he slams forward, the other grasping between his legs in anticipation.

He’s wet, the sheets damp beneath him, and as Mycroft swipes his thumb over the slit, spreading it across the head, he feels the surge of warmth and throbbing that marks Greg’s release.

It feels wonderful.

His hand strokes as he lets everything else slip away except those pulses inside and Greg’s groans, all the things that mark Greg’s satisfaction and bliss. 

_ Mine… coming for me… in me…. _

It only takes a few strokes to put himself over the edge, crying out Gregory’s name as he spills over his hand, shuddering and tightening down on the source of his pleasure where it still lingers inside him.

 

*

 

"Christ... fuck, Myc..." 

Exhausted, Greg exhales between Mycroft's shoulder blades. He can't remember dropping forwards; climax is still blistering at the edges of his mind. He kisses the nape of Mycroft's neck as he shivers, enjoying the feel of his lover's body contracting around him, his heart pounding.

"That's it, darlin'..." he whispers, and nuzzles into Mycroft's neck. "That's it... all over for me, sweetheart... come all over for me..."

_ Fuck, you're so beautiful.  _

_ And you're mine. _

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft’s mind is still pleasantly hazy as he wraps himself with Greg’s arms into the smaller spoon position, both of them tidied up and headed toward sleep. Marmalade is already asleep in her spot by the oven, several of her toys having been dragged into the cat bed like a dragon guarding her small, crinkly, and shiny hoard.

He might be sore in the morning, but he’ll like it. Sex has made him confident again, comfortable and close and sure of himself. The break-in may have stolen a day of his mind’s thoughts, but that is all it will be getting. There are far better things to occupy his time with than worrying about that.

His fingers trace over the places Gregory’s fingers imprinted his hips. One or two little purpling marks are already coming up on the bone. He’ll enjoy seeing those whenever he’s changing for the next few days.

_ My love claimed me here. _

He would not be opposed to further explorations in that direction either. Though he does typically prefer to take charge, there are ways to manage that while receiving as well, even if he has less experience with that. There’s actually a toy or two he ought to invest in, to ensure when he does have the urge he’ll be more easily able to manage. 

_ Might be a few other things to acquire while I’m procuring that as well... _

“Think I might get you something, Gregory… something both of us might enjoy,” he murmurs sleepily.

“Keep it as a surprise… but I think you’ll like it.”

He’s almost asleep when his phone pings loudly. Anthea must have changed the ringer settings, seeing as he always has the thing on vibrate. Shifting in Gregory’s arms, he reaches for it.

_ [22:17] Incoming.  _

There’s a photo attached, from Anthea’s grainy surveillance in Greg’s flat stairwell.

Karen Lestrade is coming up. 

He sits up sharply, the haze of imminent sleep clearing instantly. “Bollocks,” he hisses, turning the photo so Greg can see. “What do you want to do? Shall we pretend no one’s here and we’re at mine?”

 

*

 

A few stages further into sleep, Greg barely stirs at the phone's chime. The long day and the long night before it have drained him of energy. Slugged with hormones, even getting clean felt like a marathon - all he wants now is to cuddle and sleep.

The sudden loss of Mycroft from his arms jogs him from his sleep. He groans a little, shifting, then frowns at the square of light now being shown to him. 

It takes Greg a moment to isolate the figure on his stairs from the rest of the photograph. 

When he does, the colour drains from his face in an instant.

"She'll know." His eyes flash into Mycroft's in a panic. "She'll know we're here. She wouldn't be here otherwise. Fuck. Fuck, what does she want?"

 

*

 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

Mycroft presses a quick kiss against Gregory’s forehead and shifts out of bed with the urgent speed of a younger, less sleep-deprived man. He doesn’t have time to get into his suit again, not in full, but he quickly locates his shirt and starts to button. 

“You stay right there, Gregory. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Trousers pull on quickly, shirt tucked in, and he ducks into the bathroom to swipe a bit of product through his hair, flattening it. 

Armor. It’s all armor.  _ A pity swords are out of fashion. _

“I’ll deal with her.”

No shoes. Relaxed. Obvious that he’s welcome here, and welcome to dress down. 

_ Gregory’s territory is also mine. Let her see that. _

He summons his most frigidly neutral expression and waits a bit between her knock and his answering of it, leaving the chain on so she can’t shove the door open and get past him to Gregory. 

“Karen. Isn’t it a bit late to be dropping by?”

 

*

 

Her eyes are bright.

"Mycroft..." she says, fondly, and she's come dressed like it's halfway through a breezy Saturday afternoon - skinny jeans and heels, big leather handbag, crisp coral lipstick and a flick of glitter eyeliner. She's gone for silver. It makes her eyes look almost unnaturally pale, icy-sharp and pretty enough to grace a magazine cover. "So sorry to pop round. I had no idea you were here. How unbearable of me."

She takes her time to take him in; her gaze runs with the greatest of interest over his hair, his jaw, the tucked-in shirt, the trousers, finally down to his bare feet. It makes her mouth curve.  _ Aren't you cute,  _ says the expression she gives him, and she leans her cheek coyly against the doorframe. If he wants to shut it, he'll have to trap her face in it.

"Not interrupting, am I?" she whispers, and winks. "Only need him for a minute, then I'll let you two get on."

She raises her voice. 

"It's me, Greg. Milk and no sugar, please."

 

*

 

“Oh dear, we’ve tidied the kitchen for the night.”

_ And we have a policy against serving tea to creatures of evil wearing a human skin. _

Mycroft smiles, sharp and icy under his neutrally bland exterior. It’s a natural part of British blood, he’s hypothesized, the ability to manifest rage as no more than a smile and and a lift of an eyebrow, perfectly calm and bearing no visible upset at all.

“And Greg has retired for the evening.”

_ He won’t be speaking to you, demon. _

Leaning against the other side of the doorframe, Mycroft projects with his entire being a vague sense of uppercrust disappointment in Karen’s breeding that she would both come around at such an hour and expect tea. He’d done the same to Anthea once when she stole his last biscuit and she’d, much to her own surprise, actually  _ put it back. _

“I’m sure it must be something terribly urgent, given the hour.”

 

*

 

Karen bites into her glossy coral smile. She gives a huff, as if she'd completely expected this but finds herself disappointed nonetheless. Her voice lowers, honeyed.

"Sure you justify it," she soothes, "in your own mind. 'Looking after his best interests', maybe... 'helping him manage himself'... us normal people call it  _ 'controlling'. _ And it's not all that healthy. I can lend you some magazines, pumpkin. Might help you keep an eye on that. Honestly you look the type."

The way she's regarding Mycroft - the tilt of her head, the exposure of her throat, the slightly open lips - might almost be sexual... if it weren't for the eyes. They're a little too fixed into place. 

"So he's not even allowed to talk to his family now?" she asks. "Wondered why he's not answering my messages."

 

*

 

“How wonderful that you’re already familiar with all those resources. I’m sure they have something to say regarding projection as well.”

He smiles placidly, envisioning the rapid descent Karen might have if Mycroft felt so inclined to toss her from the nearest window. Alas for laws and morals. 

_ If suspicion wouldn’t fall immediately on Gregory it might not be the worst idea. _

“Which family members were asking? I’m sure he’d hate to think he’d missed messages from any of  _ them _ .” Mycroft continues with his fixed expression of hardened politeness. “Most  _ normal _ people do not include former spouses in such categories, of course. They move on. Do your magazines have anything about that? A deeper reading on those topics might be illuminating.”

 

*

 

Karen's eyes round with quiet pity. 

"Is that the usual pattern for you?" she asks. "Cut ties and run when things stop going your way? Thought it might be. That's a shame. Luckily we'll still be here for Greg when you're gone."

She gives him a sad smile.

"I just hope this weird mental health blip clears up before you've caused him too much damage." As she adjusts her stance, recrossing her arms, the toe of her foot slides neatly into the gap in the door. "Is it a 'thing' for you, can I ask? Vulnerable straight men?"

The gentle pad of paws is only audible on Mycroft's side of the door. A curious, hopeful little head nuzzles at his leg, and her tail curls against the back of his knee.

 

*

 

“I imagine that is more your wheelhouse.” 

She really would have made an excellent spy, if her tendencies were directed to anything other than the highest level of narcissism Mycroft has seen outside of politics. 

He’d like to reach down and take Marmalade, but he has the feeling Karen is not above vindictive nonsense involving pets either.

_ Actually, that may be why she has her foot in the door. Cat runs off, force the door to open, let her shove her way through while I run after the cat… _ .

If it were spywork he’d be impressed.

He reaches down and tugs Marmalade up into his arms, settling her onto his chest.  _ Sorry, your grace. No running out the door for you. Try not to make direct eye contact with the spawn of hell in the doorway. _

“Do you often confuse genuine happiness with mental illness? Or is it more that you don’t have much experience with those around you experiencing joy?” He strokes a hand over Marmalade’s head, feeling a bit vindictively happy in finally getting to speak a bit of his mind to Karen.  _ Even if I must look like Bond villain, cat in tow. _

“Some people don’t, of course, and never realize  _ they _ are the problem.”

 

*

 

Marmalade trills softly as she's lifted. She listens to Mycroft with affectionate interest, then starts to purr as he strokes her, nestling her head against his chest.

Karen watches, unmoved. She doesn't seem to register Marmalade as a living being.

"You talk with a lot of certainty," she says, "for someone who's known Greg... a few months, is it? A few months during a fairly unstable time in his life. Then, I imagine that's part of the appeal. Someone hurt, someone unsettled... and you can sweep in and start deciding who he's allowed to see..."

She raises one beautifully pencilled eyebrow.

"I'll be glad when this is over," she says, smoothly. "So will all of his friends - his family - the people who love him. It's a shame you've had to embarrass Greg like this. Luckily we're decent people. We'll be here to put him back together when you're done."

She runs her tongue across her teeth.

"You know you can't watch him every hour of the day... don't you? Busy man that you are."

 

*

 

“Speaking from experience?” 

_ Of course she is.  _ Vulnerability is probably catnip to her. Mycroft lets a bit of bite into his smile. It’s the sort of look that sends lesser diplomats running. 

“That sounds like a threat. Is it meant to? Only I’m sure you don’t mean to threaten an officer of the law. Or- are you trying to threaten  _ me? _ I’m afraid that would be rather foolish, as Gregory and I are capable of trust and communication. You might not be familiar with the concepts, but the internet should help illuminate the matter for you.”

His hand continues to idly stroke Marmalade, as though this is just a friendly chat. The sort that won’t draw any attention from the neighbors at all. A perfectly cordial hostility.

“I suspect  _ your _ friends may need to evaluate their definition of love if this is how they treat someone simply because he’s in a relationship with another man. Shouldn’t we be a bit passed homophobia in this day and age? Hardly seems  _ decent _ if you ask me.”

 

*

 

A flicker of hardness crosses Karen's gaze.

"This isn't about homophobia," she murmurs,  _ "darling. _ This is about rather more important things than that. I imagine it satisfies your ego to see it through that lens, though... and it justifies you controlling access to Greg. I'm not surprised."

She sighs, a little airily, and lifts a hand to brush back her bright red hair.

"Well... I can see I'll have to come another time. The gatekeeper is proudly at his station. Lovely to chat to you, anyway. I won't say it's  _ good  _ to have had all my fears confirmed, but at least I can tell Greg's brother he was right."

She slips her foot from the gap in the door, and turns away. Her heels click crisply towards the stairs.

"Love to Sherlock," she calls, as she passes out of sight.

 

*

 

Mycroft’s mouth clicks shut.

_ No. She did not-  _

He can feel the wheels turning, the rapid analytics determining how, exactly, she managed to work out that connection. Sherlock is not exactly in the public sphere, and Mycroft’s presence in public databases is nearly nonexistent. 

_ It is possible. He’s got a website- it’s not as though Mummy did us any favors regarding personal security with such highly unique names…. _

Possible, then.  _ But highly improbable.  _ Not unless one had something to work with… much like what had been stolen from his home.

_ Dammit. _

He’ll have to make some inquiries in the morning, starting with Alicia and Edwin. Surveillance would be a necessity, no matter what leverage the two of them wanted, and he has no doubt they want something sizable. It will be worth it, if this woman has in fact violated the sanctity of his home.

It’s only after Marmalade gently nuzzles into his hand, wondering why his attention has lapsed, that he realizes he’s still standing there with the door ajar. 

He closes it, making a point to review the locks before he finally turns round and wanders back toward the bed, setting Marmalade down on the mattress. “Apologies, love, that took a bit longer than I was expecting. Apparently we can intuit the source of your brother’s venom with some clarity….”

 

*

 

Greg is pale as Mycroft returns to bed. He's naturally drawn himself closer to the wall, and the anxiety in his eyes is similar to the look Marmalade wears when Wills is around.

"What did she want?" he asks, as Mycroft gets back into bed. Marmalade pads over to them, picking her way across the covers. "Are you alright?"

The little cat gives a soft 'brrrrp', butting gently at Greg's hand as he gives her a distracted head rub. Her tail curls; she turns her eyes to Mycroft, and gives another chirp.  _ This amount of attention is insufficient. Where is the rest of my love? _

 

*

 

“To make a nuisance of herself.”

Mycroft pats the span of Greg’s legs under the sheets, inviting Marmalade to sit there.  _ Affection for affection, sweet girl. _

“I don’t know what she intended to bother you about, she never said. But she did imply that I am terribly controlling and abusive, that you are both terribly unhappy and heterosexual, and that she is for some reason sharing these conclusions with your brother, which may explain rather a lot.”

He looks over Greg’s face- he doesn’t need to have his analytical powers on to see how bothered Gregory is by Karen’s mere presence. Gently, he reaches out to cup Gregory’s chin and brush his thumb over the evening stubble. 

“I am perfectly well. Are  _ you _ , love?”

 

*

 

_ God. _

That's the story, then. That's the chapter two she's come up with.  _ 'Greg is gay'  _ hasn't had the impact she wanted - the two of them have kept their heads high, and in the case of Scotland Yard they even managed to beat her to it. 

So now he's being controlled and abused.

By the man slowly  _ healing _ him after control and abuse.

Greg's hardly aware of Marmalade settling herself on his legs. He's too busy trying not to picture Karen and Andy somewhere talking, the two of them agreeing that Greg is losing his mind and needs help. He can't cope with it. Of all the people she could target, Andy is the last person Greg wanted her to reach. He doesn't want to care what his brother thinks of him. He's tried. He can't just switch it off.

He has a feeling Karen came round just to show them she could. 

_ Still here,  _ he thinks, numb.  _ Still right here. Still in charge of my life. Still in charge of whether I sleep. _

As he gazes into Mycroft's eyes, and his partner's thumb strokes his stubble, the anxiety and the gratitude start to react in Greg's chest. He feels the resulting emotion well up only a second before it breaks; he's too weak to fight it back down. Exhausted, his eyes gloss over. They close as he drops his head into Mycroft's hand.

In silence he shakes, his throat too tight to speak.

_ If I'd been alone - if he hadn't -  _

_ Fuck, when will she stop? _

_ What does she want? _

 

*

 

“Come here, love.”

Mycroft pulls gently, guiding Greg to lean against his chest and wishing there was a way to simply undo the years of scar tissue Karen had left across Greg’s psyche. 

_ It’s alright, darling. I love you, scars and all. _

“She called me a gatekeeper, and it’s about the only thing she said that I agree with. If you need a gate between yourself and her, or whoever she’s spilled her poison into, I am more than happy to erect the barricade myself.”

He wraps his free arm around Greg, comforting. Protecting. Marmalade takes it as additional fuss for herself and nestles into the pair of them, warm and well-fluffed.

“I shall stand in front of it with a sword if I have to.”

Pressing a soft kiss to Gregory’s forehead, he lets himself breathe in the scent of Greg’s hair, of cotton and sex and the leftover traces of deodorant and cologne. 

_ Mine. Mine and I love you. _

“What would you like, love? Shall I make us some tea? Finish off the wine? Or would you like to try and sleep?” 

 

*

 

Greg curls into Mycroft's chest, listening in silence as he tries to get his breathing under control. He doesn't want to be a wreck over this. They had a peaceful evening, and he was feeling strong - strong enough to look after Myc - now it feels like he's fracturing along all his fault lines. Marmalade's soft warmth makes him want to cry. Mycroft's gentle reassurance is everything he needs in the world right now, but it throws into full clarity exactly what he escaped.

_ Escaping.  _

_ Not escaped yet. Still being chased.  _

_ Christ... where will it end? _

He doesn't care if Karen's convinced half the world that he's losing his mind. It's fine. Let them think that. He just wants her to leave him to it. 

As he nestles into Mycroft's neck, it crosses Greg's mind that he'd move if he could - leave this flat completely, and do everything he could to keep the address a secret. 

She'd only need to follow him home from work once, though. 

The truth is that it's easy to stalk someone. If this were the other way round - if he'd been a wife, and his ex-husband was turning up late at night to harass him and his new boyfriend - he'd be justified in ringing the police.

_ Fuck. Imagine. _

Half of Scotland Yard remembers Karen as a chirpy and friendly receptionist. Bright-coloured nails; post-it notes with smiley faces.

He's suddenly glad that Mycroft seems to see through it.

Kissing nervously at the corner of Mycroft's jaw, he murmurs,

"I love you." He's quiet; he's not sure he could make his voice loud right now if he tried. The urge to hide is overwhelming. "M'sorry. I mean it. I'm really sorry."

 

*

 

“You have no need to be sorry. Her behavior is not your responsibility.”

Mycroft soothes with his fingers, trying to caress away Greg’s cares. He must be strong for Gregory again- Gregory has already given him the gift of being protected and held and cared for today. He can do the same. Even if it means another rather sleepless night.

In truth, Karen could get to him as well. Her comment regarding Sherlock certainly had that effect, and he is sure it was intentional. 

But he can stay stoic through the jabs at his own life, if it means keeping Gregory safe. It will do Greg no benefit to know that she can pierce his walls as well, not when he’s using them to fortify Gregory’s own.

“A colleague once called a- well, never mind who, particularly, but let us say a high ranking person in another nation’s security services- a human angler fish. Dangling a bright light that lures people in, thinking they’ve found warmth and trust and safety.”

His fingers run the lines of the tendons along Gregory’s neck in a light, soothing massage from the base of his skull down.  _ Relax, love. You’re quite safe with me. _

“You never spot the teeth until it’s too late. She’s one of those, I think.”

 

*

 

The gentle strokes of Mycroft's fingers are intensely comforting. Greg gives himself over to them, closing his eyes to focus on those soothing, settling touches as he listens. A little of the tension eases from his muscles; he breathes in.

"Yeah. Yeah, I... I see what you mean..." 

Words - memories - stick in his mouth. It feels strange to voice them. 

"Honestly, it didn't occur to me anything was wrong until... years. Years of it. It's insane, the things you train yourself not to see. The things you brush aside, telling yourself marriage is about embracing someone's flaws."

He hesitates, glancing up into his lover's eyes.

_ God.  _

_ You're... you're just... patient. Perfect. _

Love softens Greg's expression; it's clear and unguarded, straight from the soul.

"Will you - promise me something?" He holds Mycroft's gaze, his eyes gentle. "Be honest with me. Always. Please don't ever stop doing that. It's - e-everything to me, knowing you're for real. Knowing this is exactly what I think it is."

The distressed shine returns to his eyes.

"Karen believes herself when she lies. Sometimes I don't know if she really exists - if she's just one mask after another, and there's nothing real behind it all. Just things she makes up for fun. I can't deal with that."

 

*

 

“I will never treat you as she has, Gregory.” Mycroft holds Greg’s gaze, smiling gently, his hands still gentle, holding his lover close. “And I shall always be as honest as I can.” One corner of his lips quirks up. “Pray do not press me for classified information.”

He’s phrased it carefully, of course. Mycroft would share everything in the world with Gregory, everything at all, with one terrible exception.

_ Sherlock. _

He can’t. Not when Sherlock could show up high and force Gregory to arrest him. Mycroft would never be able to bear it, feeling like he has to choose between his lover’s loyalty to the law and his brother’s well-being.

_ He’d collapse utterly in a cell. Rehab is bad enough. Jail may well be too much for him to manage. _

Once Gregory is asleep he will text Anthea. Karen knowing about Sherlock at all feels as though she has ascertained his weak point and stomped upon it with little warning. 

His lips meet Greg’s softly, burying his worries amongst the very real strength of his love.

“I assure you, you have only seen the  _ real  _ me. You know more of me than anyone else. And I am entirely yours, and yours alone.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart thumps quietly as they kiss. He leans into the gentle contact, his eyes closing. 

_ So easy to rest with you. Easy to breathe. _

"Work is work," he murmurs, his eyes still closed as their lips part. He takes a tiny, tender kiss. "Won't ever ask you about that stuff. I just want to feel like this with you, all the time... just - easy. Real and honest."

Marmalade stirs between them, emitting a sleepy trill. She stretches out to the very tips of her toes.

Greg's heart tightens as she shivers.

"Sorry, princess... are we disturbing your beauty sleep?"

 

*

 

“I’m sure we are.” 

Mycroft holds out a hand that she stretches into, happily receiving the fuss that she has obviously been getting denied while the humans fuss over each other.

“What do you think, dear? Shall we try and sleep?” He fluffs the fur between her ears, the soft rumble of purring growing louder the more attention she receives. “I am trusting you to be on watch while Gregory and I obtain some rest, yes, your grace?”

His gaze shifts to Gregory, warm and fond. 

“What do you think? Can you sleep now? I can still make tea, if you’d like.”

 

*

 

Greg's not sure what he did to deserve Mycroft Holmes. He's glad he did it, whatever it was.

He holds Mycroft's gaze, feeling the warmth of it wrap around him like arms, and leans up to take just one more gentle kiss from his lover's lips.

"Let's sleep," he murmurs. "Think we've earned it by now."

His eyes shine in the darkness.

"Thank you, love. For letting me need you."

It's not long before he settles again. Marmalade - ever mindful of the needs of her humans - does a wonderful job of nestling against him, paws up and purring quietly as he rubs the soft fur of her tummy. By the time Greg's fingers still, the pair of them are deeply asleep. 


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft holds Gregory until he is well asleep before slipping a hand free to text Anthea. Sherlock has to be looked into. Heaven knows how Karen managed to even learn his name.

However… it has not escaped his mind that Sherlock was also featured in the items stolen from his house. Stolen by a man. Could she have someone so deeply under her thumb as to commit crimes for her?

And if so, do they have a limit?

He’ll have to increase Gregory’s security. Mycroft cannot physically throw himself before every threat. Something will need to be done. 

His mind is still ill at ease in the morning. He bids Greg goodbye with a rock in his chest and climbs into his dark-windowed car where Anthea is waiting for him, looking pristine if one ignored the makeup hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

“Any word?”

She hands him an entry packet, one he’s seen before. Medical release. Signatures. Holding cell. “We picked him up wandering in the park, before the police responded to a call about a vagrant. He’s already been moved to a secure facility. You will have to check him in.”

“Of course.”

_ They found him in time.  _

The relief he feels is palpable. “We’ll handle that first.”

“Smallwood is also asking about logistics for the trade-”

“Oh, bugger the trade conference, she hardly even needs me there.” Anthea blinks and lifts a brow until Mycroft looks away. “Apologies. I may be a bit… fraught.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mycroft sinks back in his seat, closing his eyes.  _ Sherlock isn’t dead. This will all be fine.  _

_ Everything is fine. _

 

*

 

_ [13:02] Hey love... hows your day? On my lunch. Just got off the phone with Lizzie... says she and andy are free friday night, if we wanted to go through for dinner. There's a good italian near them. I can drive us. Would you be able to get out of work at 5...? G xxx _

 

*

 

Mycroft has ensconced himself in the Diogenes for a late lunch, avoiding dealing with Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin for the moment. They will have to be approached with strategy and care, and it is difficult for him to focus on either when his mind is still occupied by Sherlock’s voice screaming obscenities at him as they dragged him off to a secure wing.

It’s quite irritating that Sherlock has found a new supplier. Mycroft finds them all, eventually. They typically find themselves on the wrong end of a drugs bust with the narcotics officers Mycroft has deduced have the least regard for kind treatment of those they bring in.

He has Gregory’s message on one side of his desk. Friday. 5pm. Departing at five o’clock may only enforce his current standing with Sir Edwin and his nominal level of power over the various MIs. 

Then again, it’s Gregory. Of course he wants to be there as early as Gregory would like.

On the other side of his desk, his laptop is open to an email. Not to his  _ real _ address, of course, but a forward from the one he officially maintains via the Ministry of Transportation. Anthea has her own minion that typically reads those and responds, when required. 

This one, however, is personal.

 

_ Mycroft, _

_ Maybe it's time to be honest with you. Genuinely it's a shame you've gotten caught up in something like this. I know you'll most likely delete this message unread... but at least it won't be on my conscience anymore. _

_ I know you think you have Greg wrapped nicely around your finger.  _

_ And I know you think he's all sweetness and light. He fooled me at first, too. But there are some things he obviously hasn't told you... otherwise, I don't think you'd be quite so proud of your little conquest.  _

_ He comes across as fairly fragile when he wants. _

_ He can be nasty when he wants, too. You might have seen glimpses of his temper by now. He keeps it well hidden, I know. But it comes out in the end. When things aren't going his way, he changes. _

_ And as soon as he works out how you’re using him... _

_ Well, let's hope you're close to A&E when it happens. _

_ If you want to know more, just say. More than happy to give you the details.  _

_ All my best, _

_ Karen _

 

Mycroft has been staring at it for ten minutes, debating. He can’t imagine Gregory in a temper. The man has nearly wept because Marmalade did something preciously adorable. 

He won’t respond, of course. But he does authorise Anthea to send on any other emails that come in, challenging to his psyche though they may be. He’s had worse. He can manage Karen Lestrade’s particular brand of vindictive insanity.

_ [13:33] Providing a lack of emergencies, I will make five work. Might you forward the information for the restaurant? My security team will want to look it over.  _

Dinner. Italian. He should be able to pull himself more together by Friday in order to make a decent impression. 

Sighing, Mycroft returns to picking at his rather wilted salad.

 

*

 

_ [13:35] Il padrino on Church St. Only small but... hoping it might be cosy... _

_ [13:37] Security team to shoot andy if he kicks off, yeah? :) I'll get myself a big badge with a G, so they know which one not to aim at. xxx _

 

*

 

By the time Greg gets to Mycroft's house, carrying Marmalade in her cat box with all of her things, it's nearly nine o'clock. He's not heard much from Mycroft today. 

_ Meetings. Work stuff.  _ It's not unusual, and it's nothing Greg would change. He's not surprised to find no sign of Mycroft at home yet. He makes sure the place is secure, then lets Marmalade out of her box. She comes to keep him company as he makes dinner, sitting on the counter where she's not really allowed. 

Greg can't bring himself to shoo her off. It's too nice to have her close. She chats with him happily, chirping in response as he tells her about his day. Every distant sound is Mycroft coming through the front door; every slight shift of Greg's jeans is the buzz of a message. 

But there's nothing. 

He eats his food at the table with Marmalade, hoping Mycroft will be here by the time he's finished. As he washes up, he boils enough water in the kettle to make tea for two. When his mug is empty, he washes that too. 

He plates up a portion of food, and leaves a post-it note on the fridge.  _ Dinner in here! Boyfriend in bed xxx _

Marmalade has beaten Greg up there. She's nestled on Mycroft's side of the bed, fast asleep on her side with her long monkey tucked under a paw, her head resting on Mycroft's pillow - and as he looks at her, Greg has the strangest instinct. 

_ She knows he won't be here for a while.  _

The moment it crosses his mind, Greg frowns at himself. It makes no sense. Marmalade doesn't have some kind of psychic link to Mycroft; she's got no idea when he'll be home. She's just gotten cosy, that's all.

Mycroft will be here any minute.

As Greg climbs into bed, he checks his phone in the darkness.  _ No New Messages.  _ It's gotten very late - there'd normally be a text by now.

He sends one, short and fond.  _ Hope you're okay. Love you.  _ On an affectionate whim, and to distract himself from his quiet worry, he takes a selfie of the three of them from above - Greg smiling without a shirt, Long Monkey in the middle, and Marmalade, fast asleep with a small amount of pink tongue protruding - and attaches the photo to the message.

He watches it disappear across the network, hoping.

 

*

 

It is excruciatingly late by the time Mycroft makes it through his own front door, exhausted and tired of even looking at other humans. He couldn’t even bring himself to respond to Gregory’s message, though it did send a pang of fondness through him. The idea of any more communicating after an evening spent managing the petty squabbling of insignificant foreign powers was simply… too much.

He sees the note on the fridge- if Gregory was awake he’d make sure Mycroft ate- but he’s simply not hungry, not at this hour. Besides, eating so close to sleeping is terrible on the metabolism. Best not to risk it.

_ Did I eat lunch? No, probably not. _

_ That may explain the headache. _

The door to the panic room calls to him. He still hasn’t really organized his things, only gotten them off the floor and laid them out across the table. 

_ Gregory is upstairs. Go to bed. _

Mycroft can organize a file or two first. It will help relax him, help separate him from the foolishness of the day before he goes up. 

Just one file should be fine.

He falls asleep in the armchair, neatly ordered piles on the table in front of him.

 

*

 

When Greg wakes up to empty sheets, at first he's not sure if he slept at all. It could only have been a few minutes ago he shut his eyes - Mycroft would be here otherwise. 

Marmalade has gone, though. She's even taken her monkey toy.

Sitting up, suddenly awake and afraid, Greg reaches for his phone. 

As he turns it over, and sees quarter past four in the morning, his heart lurches into his throat. 

No messages. No missed calls. 

No Mycroft.

This isn't normal.

He's out of bed before he knows what he's doing. He doesn't understand why he's pulling on a shirt. Some part of his brain is already out of the door, combing the streets. Something's wrong. Two nights ago they had a break-in. Last night there was Karen - and now Mycroft hasn't come home.

With two buttons done on his shirt, and his pulse pounding in his ears, Greg rediscovers the phone in his hand. He's already out on the landing, moving down the stairs at speed as he tries to think who to call. 

There's only one name he knows. 

As he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for Anthea to pick up, he can hear his own breath rasping in the silence. It's pitch dark downstairs. His hand keeps straying for a back-up radio that isn't there. He doesn't even know where he's going, where his feet are taking him - until he sees the panic room door and the light shining through it. 

As Greg pushes the door open, he's shaking. Half of his brain expects to find something awful - the sort of nightmare that only seems possible at four o'clock in the morning, something horrible that will haunt him.

At the sight of Mycroft slumped in the chair, and the maps neatly arranged on top of the table, the relief is too much.

He abandons his phone - still calling Anthea - on the table. Tears burn in his eyes as he kneels. He wraps his arms around Mycroft, gathering him at once into a hug. 

_ You're alright. You're okay. _

_ Fuck, I thought - I thought she'd -  _

Shaking, he drives his fingers through Mycroft's hair. The breath breaks from him; he gasps, crying, barely understanding why.

 

*

 

“Gre’gry?”

Mycroft snaps from a vague state of sleepy half-awareness into the sort of painful awareness that usually comes with a sudden need to attend to terrorism or assassinations. 

This time, he has a lap covered in a sobbing lover.

The analytics kick on, as they often do with adrenaline. He’s done something wrong, surely, something egregious, if Greg is so deeply affected-

_ No, no- he’s clinging, seeking comfort. Phone- Anthea? What time-  _

_ Oh, I am a fool. _

“Gregory- Gregory, love, it’s alright-” He wraps his arms around Greg’s back and strokes, soothing as best he can. One hand reaches past and plucks up the phone. Lord knows what Anthea’s heard, and she may well be on her way up, armed. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Archipelago,” he breathes into the phone, then hits  _ End,  _ dropping it back to the table _. _

“Sweetheart- I’m so sorry, love.  I’ve frightened you, haven’t I? I’m sorry, darling, I love you- I’m alright, I promise.”

 

*

 

"M's-sorry - m'sorry, I just... f-fuck - I realised you weren't there, and everything in the world went through my head, and you hadn't called - a-and I just..."

Greg's fingers curl in the short hairs on the back of Mycroft's neck, shaking as they hug. His heart is beating so fast it's hard to think. He has the same feeling of dread which lingers after a nightmare, when the realisation of  _ it's not real  _ doesn't yet seem to mean anything.

"I-I don't know what I thought. M'sorry. C-Causing a panic - "

_ Fuck - if she'd hurt you -  _

_ Fuck, why do I assume it would be her? What's wrong with me? _

Nuzzling his face against Mycroft's neck, Greg swallows back the distressing truth: she's getting to him. He could have assumed anything, waking up and seeing Mycroft wasn't there. He assumed danger - imminent, real danger - and it's Karen's face that comes first to his mind. Even now, something sinister drifts at the edges of his thoughts. He can't quite isolate what it is. It's just out of his reach.

He doesn't want it to come any nearer.

"W-Why... why didn't you come to bed?"

 

*

 

“I’m the only one who needs to apologize, Gregory, just me…” Mycroft murmurs as Greg’s heart spills.

_ My fault entirely. Only mine. _

_ Foolish. _

He continues to stroke Greg’s hair, feeling the heat of his lover’s breath at his throat, still shaky and frightened. Mycroft isn’t sure what else to offer to ease his mind. His caresses can only do so much to soothe.

“I… I don’t know what I was thinking, love. I had a difficult day, and I knew you would be asleep by the time I arrived home…. I thought I might organize a little before I came up, let my mind shrug off the- negative energy, if you will- before I came up. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, love, I’m terribly sorry.”

Turning his lips in, he kisses through Greg’s hair penitently. 

“Your love is a fool, sometimes, Gregory. Will you forgive me?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's voice seems to wrap around Greg, soft and quiet; it helps to sweep away the fear. Even breathing together is comforting. Whatever Greg expected - whatever went through his mind - it doesn't matter now. It wasn't real. Everything is alright.

His heart aches as Mycroft kisses his hair. 

"S'nothing to forgive," he whispers, and closes his eyes. He breathes in Mycroft's scent. "Just glad you're okay. That's all. I - th-think I'm still a bit... after the break-in, and... last night..."

He shudders, realising in a rush.

"B-Been a weird fucking week. Can we go back to the weekend?"

 

*

 

A small huff escapes Mycroft’s lips. “Had I the power to bend time, we could stay in weekends always.” He gestures to the array of papers on the table, his collection of maps and names and data for all his mages and sword-wielders. “That is more their domain than mine, I fear.”

He softly kisses a path down Greg’s cheeks until he reaches his lips, trying to prove his contrition and love in the same small motions.

“Can I take you upstairs and tuck you in again, my love? There are still a few hours of dark left, and I shouldn’t like to be the reason you’re short on sleep again.”

Mycroft doesn’t mind his own lack of sleep. Rest and food have both long seemed optional when compared to everything in his life that has real import. The security of the nation. Gregory. 

Sherlock. 

_ Thank every deity that he’s seen to.  _ The idea of managing his brother while Karen is terrorizing his lover is unfathomable. It would probably strain even his copious skills past the point of sanity.

“Come, love. Let’s get you back to bed.”

 

*

 

Upstairs, the sheets are still thrown back where Greg left them. The sight makes him briefly uneasy again, remembering the sharpness of the panic in those first few moments. His hand tightens in Mycroft's. As they're undressing by the bed, he finds himself seeking eye contact and quiet touches - like his heart needs reassurance that Mycroft is really here.

He's quiet as they get beneath the covers. His arms go around Mycroft tightly, and their legs tangle together. 

As he cups Mycroft's jaw, he finds himself looking into Mycroft's eyes. Nervousness softens his gaze.

"Couldn't cope," he says, "if you were hurt. If something happened to you."

He hesitates, glancing at Mycroft's lips; the distress feels thick in his throat.

"I - know you can't tell me. Work stuff. I know there's nothing I can do to make it better. For all I know, you saved the world tonight, and - and honestly, part of me hates myself, thinking I've now got the right to ask you to text me. Like you don't have enough to worry about. It's just - I... I d-don't mean to chat and entertain me. I mean so I know you're alright."

_ Fuck. Here it comes. _

"She's... I mean, she - she might - "

Greg's throat closes; he swallows to open it again.

"It's - s-sorry. I'm just jumpy. Ignore me."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows. His fingers gently brush the skin he can reach, tracing the patterns of his love everywhere. It’s intimate comfort. 

“I should have texted, love. I’m sorry. If it helps at all, I am rarely in the position to be doing any of the ‘saving’ from a…  _ hands-on _ … perspective. My position is much more- administrative. But I do not wish to worry you. You deserve better than that.”

_ You probably deserve better than me, _ he thinks, not for the first time. Of all his darker thoughts it’s been the voice he’s been able to silence most easily, at least until he makes mistakes like this that remind him why his past efforts at relationships have been little more than convenient sex and a complete lack of emotional involvement. 

_ I must be better for you. _

Gregory is still nervous. He’s been harder to calm, lately. Not that Mycroft can blame him. The more he sees of Karen the more surprised he is that Gregory seems well-adjusted at all. 

“Gregory… is- I know she is a manipulative creature, but is she also… physically violent?”

 

*

 

Greg is quiet for some time. 

"She'd sometimes break things," he says. "Destroy stuff. She cut my clothes up a few times. I'm pretty sure she's not afraid of violent people. I don't think she'd - I don't know, just  _ attack _ someone, but... I wouldn't want to be crossing the road when she's behind the wheel."

He knows it's sinister; he doesn't like having to say it. But it needs to be said.

Unsettled, he kisses Mycroft's jaw.

"She'd maybe talk someone into violence for her. I can imagine that. F-Fairly easily, to be honest." His fingers tighten in Mycroft's hair; he draws a breath. "Listen - about the break-in... have your people heard anything else? Because I've kinda started thinking. And I don't know if this is me just stressed and paranoid, but..."

 

*

 

Mycroft inhales a long, steadying breath. Every time he unfurls a layer of what Karen did to Gregory, to  _ his _ Gregory, he finds himself freshly horrified.

_ She threatened to get him alone, didn’t she? What if she were to hurt him? _

He’d only really considered the psychological toll of her presence, not a physical one. He’ll need to update Anthea. Again. 

“Nothing specific. As nothing relevant to work was taken, they are not terribly interested in pursuing things through… more intensive channels. However….”

Mycroft toys with his thoughts. Should he mention Sherlock? He can, without mentioning the drugs. In this case, at least. Sherlock is quite safe where he is. Even against his own will.

“When she came to your flat, she mentioned my brother by name. With what was stolen… yes, it’s occurred to me that she was… involved. Sherlock is in a secure location at the moment for- other reasons- but it was quite odd to hear her mention him.”

He nestles closer, bringing as much as their skin together as he can. It feels somehow safer that way.

“I don’t suppose you remember any housebreakers she was close with? Whoever she sent knew the craft, and had the highest level of override codes outside of my employer’s access. Those are only meant to be distributed to emergency responders.”

 

*

 

Greg rubs his cheek against Mycroft's, inhaling as they nestle together. They couldn't get much closer than they are right now. It feels like being part of a safe and comfortable whole; it's intensely settling.

"If she had dodgy friends when we were married, she kept it quiet from me. Though it's totally within the bounds of possibility."

Greg rolls a thought around his mouth. 

"By  _ 'emergency responders',"  _ he says, with care, "d'you mean... security professionals? Because we have people at Scotland Yard trained in things like that. And they're not housebreakers, but they work to counter housebreakers. They know the techniques."

He hesitates, stroking his thumb across Mycroft's cheek. His eyes are soft and shadowed in the darkness.

"Karen would've met some of them when she worked there," he says. "And... well, in terms of causing trouble for someone... breaking into their house in the middle of the night for no reason is pretty effective. Taking  _ personal _ stuff, not valuable stuff. Then hounding them the next night, just to prove they're still not safe..."

 

*

 

“Mmm. That sort, possibly. I think the intention is more to allow ambulance personnel access, but… I suppose Scotland Yard may as well. I’ve never asked.”

Mycroft trusts other people to manage his security for him. Anthea, and the rest, all the personnel provided by work- it’s their job. He’s never had reason to question the practices in depth.

“It would take… a certain sort of person, both to think they could get away with doing that sort of thing, and to be able to do it in the first place. I should like to think most of your colleagues are not so immoral as to think themselves above the law.”

_ Gregory would probably like to think so too.  _ It’s worse, somehow, that she’s even made him question his own job and the people he should be able to trust.  _ She won’t let him feel safe anywhere.  _ The idea is shattering.  _ And I thought I had seen most of the depths of human cruelty. _

“Would you… I know it’s not ideal, but she- she implied she might attempt to- get to you- when I am not present and I…. If there is any chance of her causing you physical harm, love…. I could assign you a degree of personal security. Someone just to keep nearby, in case….”

 

*

 

Greg leans close; he presses his lips gently to Mycroft's. He holds them there for some time, feeling calm lull through his system as the contact lingers. Mycroft's concern is enough to make his heart squeeze. 

"You shouldn't have to deal with this," he murmurs against Mycroft's mouth. "You've got all sorts going on. I don't want to be a stress you don't need." 

He rests their foreheads together, his eyes still closed.

"I'll do whatever you think's best. I mean it, love. She won't be able to get into work - I'll warn the main reception team - and when I'm here, she can't get to me - but whatever else you want me to do, if it gives you peace of mind, I'll do it."

All over again Greg relives the moment he found an empty bed beside him. Some part of him had known beyond doubt that Mycroft had come to harm.

He doesn't want Mycroft to have to worry like that.

Hesitating, he glances down between them; his fingers curl against Mycroft's back. 

"Myc, my - flat's... I mean, it's been a while since I was there alone. But last night she got right to the door. If she really wants, she could just wait on the landing until I have to leave. I - I don't know if it's safe to be there right now..."

 

*

 

“Stay here,” Mycroft says without a moment’s hesitation. “Bring whatever you need. Anthea will go with you to retrieve your things if I am unavailable- or she can acquire them for you.”

His lips find Gregory’s forehead, his nose, his mouth. 

“You have the keys already, love. Even if I am detained by her majesty’s needs, you are always welcome here. I want you to feel safe.”

He’ll work with Anthea. He’ll think of something. Something that will unequivocally ensure Gregory’s safety. 

There must be something that will. Mycroft does this for a living, after all. He should be able to secure his own lover from harm. 

“You are never a burden, Gregory. You do know that, yes? I want  _ you _ , I want you  _ here _ , and I want you  _ safe _ . I don’t mind if there’s stress when it comes to keeping you safe, beautiful. I’ll never mind that.”

 

*

 

It’s impossible not to cry. The tears are soundless and small, enough to push away with Greg’s fingertips. He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s neck, nestles close and in calm silence cries for a little while, waiting to speak until he knows his voice won’t crack and break. 

"I - n-need you." He swallows, shaking as he kisses Mycroft’s cheek. "I’m not kidding. I  _ need _ you. I... oh, s-shit - I know it’s not been long - I’m s-sorry, I know it’s moving really fast, I just... I r-really need you. When I woke up and you weren’t there... fuck. Myc, I wouldn’t handle it. I wouldn’t be okay. E-Ever."

 

*

 

Mycroft makes quiet, soothing sounds as Greg cries, feeling the dampness on his neck.  _ Oh, my poor love. I didn’t realize.  _

He’ll have to be more careful. Gregory’s emotions must be as high a priority as the safety of the man himself. Yet- Edwin would not approve of anything coming before his work. 

He has a feeling that choice has already been made, however, and his choice is the one curled in his arms. Edwin can deal with it or find someone else with his particular skill set to bother.

“It’s alright, love, I’m right here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

*

 

Greg feels his soul glow even through his tears. He knows it isn’t Mycroft’s forte to comfort someone crying; he knows this is probably the last thing Mycroft needs after a day so exhausting he collapses in a chair. He’s doing it anyway. The comfort is quiet and honest and it’s  _ everything, _ and all over again Greg gets hit with a wave of nearly breathless realisation:  _ holy shit, this is it. This is the big one. This is the real deal.  _

"I love you too," he whispers. He feels his heart kick gently in his chest. "I love you so much..."

Mycroft has given him comfort; it seems like the right thing to give Mycroft action. 

"I’ll... i-if she does anything else, I’ll - look into options. I’m a bloody policeman. I work with specialists trained to handle this. Can’t be the first man in the world who's been stalked."

As he says it aloud, it makes more and more sense; it feels more and more calming. 

"She gets away with what she does because nobody knows. Because nothing’s ever recorded. So... let’s get something on her file. Let’s get her told by a solicitor to quit contacting us and showing up. She can claim I’m going mental all she likes, but we can block her off with the law. She took everything from me already. So long as she can’t take you, and she can’t take Marmalade, I don’t care."

 

*

 

“That would be wise, love.” Mycroft almost feels relieved, hearing it. He wants Gregory to feel safe, and part of that will be feeling capable of protecting himself. 

Until he’s sure of it, however, Mycroft will continue to be as much of a sheltering rock for him as he can.

“I shall see if any of my… access to certain public surveillance… might capture anything that shall assist you in making a protection order enforceable.”

He will check the private surveillance as well. Some that can be massaged into a more legal format. Or at least assigned to a more legitimate providence, should anyone ask.

“Fortunately, I doubt very much that her usual tactics will work on a cat. Especially one who already loves you deeply. Promises and mind games have little effect on the feline disposition.”

 

*

 

Greg's laugh comes soft against Mycroft's neck. He smiles, reaching up with a hand to get rid of the last of his tears. They'll be alright - Mycroft isn't an ordinary person, and Karen only knows how to prey on ordinary people. Yesterday, for the first time, she'd come to Greg's flat and not been allowed to see Greg. That's something.

It's worth holding onto.

"I'll speak to someone tomorrow," he says. He kisses the corner of Mycroft's mouth, making it a promise. "Well... in a few hours. If Anthea says anything, I'm really sorry. I figured if there  _ was  _ a problem... m'sorry I dragged her out of bed..."

Their kiss goodnight is soft and slow; it's full of relief and love.

"Sweet dreams, gorgeous..." Greg's arms tighten gently. "Wake me up when you do. I'd - like to shower together. Spend some time before work."

Late nights for Mycroft seem to beget late nights; they come in batches. Greg has a feeling there'll be a couple more of them this week.

A few minutes to cuddle and wash each other in the morning will make all the difference.

"Good night," he murmurs, and they share just one more kiss. "I love you so much."   
  



	8. Chapter 8

It isn’t that bad until Friday.

Mycroft arranges additional security measures for Gregory while pandering to Sir Edwin and Lady Smallwood regarding what they want out of him for the trade conference. He has his CCTV access back by Thursday, and though he is often on the later side getting home he’s beginning to feel safe again.

In retrospect, he should have known it wouldn’t be quite so easy.

After opting in the morning to go with one of his more _approachable_ suits, to endear himself to Gregory’s brother and sister-in-law, he’s spent much of the morning debating how best to convince Andy that he truly loves Greg and his brother is genuinely happy.

 _No dossiers,_ he reminds himself. _People don’t like it when you’ve read their entire life story before meeting them._

Around 3pm Anthea enters with a look of concern on her face that Mycroft knows from years of experience won’t mean anything good for him. “What is it?”

“Your brother, sir. He’s gone from the facility. They’re not even sure when he left- it was sometime after lunch.”

His blood freezes. Sherlock on drugs is one thing, but left-rehab-early Sherlock is a miserable terror that tends to break things out of anger, when he isn’t immediately seeking another massive fix.

“Get me all the local surveillance in a five mile radius.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mycroft’s hands are shaking when he reaches for his phone. He wills them to still before he starts to type.

_[15:08] Darling, something is coming up. I am hopeful I will still be free at five, but it may be prudent to take separate cars just in case. MH x_

 

*

 

All day, the thought of the evening hasn't been far from Greg's mind. It's been hard to invest in anything else. His clean shirt hangs ready on the back of his office door, and there's cologne in the glove compartment of his car. Colchester is a two hour drive; the table's booked for half seven. It's going to be fairly tight if they hit traffic.

 _Or some other problem,_ he thinks, reading the text he's just received.

He bites his lip.

_How hopeful is 'hopeful'?_

He supposes there's two hours to go yet. There's no point getting nervous without good reason - and if they're taking separate cars, Mycroft can probably get there a lot faster. It's fine. If anything, it's sweet of Mycroft to give him a heads-up.

He finishes his coffee to give himself time to think, then types his reply.

 

_[15:13] No worries love. I'll text you closer to 5. Hope things sort themselves out. G xxx_

 

He then puts it out of his mind, and gets on with some work.

It's ten to five when he finally decides to make his escape. It's been a slow day; nothing too dramatic is going on. If anything, for a Friday, it's been quiet - like the universe knows he needs an easy one.

He gets changed in the gents, swapping his white work shirt for the striped charcoal one he's been glancing at all day. Cufflinks jazz it up a little; he undoes a couple of extra buttons. Mycroft's recent late nights mean that at least there aren't love-bites to worry about. He doubts that would go down well with Andy.

 _It'll be fine,_ he tells himself, surveying his reflection in the bathroom mirror. _We're having dinner. It'll be nice. Lizzie'll be there. And Andy can't get too grumpy in a restaurant._

As he washes his face with cold water, wondering why he suddenly feels warm, the door opens - and there comes a laugh.

"Hot date is it, boss?"

Greg's jaw sets. He blinks the water from his eyes, takes a handful of paper towels and dries himself off, ignoring Ryan's grin in the mirror.

"Meeting my brother and his wife for dinner," he says, as he tosses the towels into the bin. "Should be nice."

"Ooh. 'Meet the family', is it?"

Wiping the smirk off Stringer's face matters more than the truth right now. "No, actually. Mycroft's not gonna be there."

Stringer's grin doesn't budge an inch. "Uh oh..." he says, his eyes glittering. "Trouble in paradise."

Greg's never wanted to drown someone in a urinal so badly in his life.

"He's working," he says, coldly, and heads for the door. "Thanks for your interest, though. Nice to know you're invested."

Stringer's comment gets lost in the swing of the door.

Annoyed and distracted, Greg reaches his car before he realises he hasn't texted Mycroft. He sits at the wheel in the car park to do it, cologne drying on his neck as he types.

 

_[17:03] Hey... just about to set off. Has your thing worked out? Or shall I meet you there? Love you. G xxx_

 

*

 

At four o’clock, Mycroft still had hope that Sherlock would be quickly recovered and returned to the facility.

By five o’clock, he is despairing of it.

“He cannot possibly have evaded _every_ CCTV in the area.”

Anthea looks worn, despite her carefully applied makeup. Mycroft knows that if his own sleep has been suffering, hers has been much worse. “We’ll get a trace- sir, you should go to dinner, I’ll take care of it.”

It’s tempting. But Sherlock is his problem to manage. That Anthea assists with him is testament to her own good will, not a duty to her work but a personal duty to Mycroft himself.

Besides, she drove back from France overnight, abandoning her own romantic liaison to take care of the break-in. He cannot in good conscience leave this to her alone as well.

“We’ll hit his homeless network,” he says determinedly. “I have some names and locations. Our people are on his bolt holes?”

She nods. “We have them all remotely monitored. Satellite only, as specified. If he enters we’ll know.”

“Alright.” He inhales as he rises. “The network won’t speak to intermediaries. I can only hope Sherlock has not poisoned them too much against having a word with me directly.”

He checks his phone again once they’re in the car, wincing.

_Liar._

This _is_ lying to Gregory. Worse, he’s failing him when he needs support with Andy.

 _Sherlock is your responsibility, Mycroft,_ Mummy’s voice scoffs across his mind. _If anything happens to him that you could stop it will be your fault._

Mycroft lets his eyes close for a long moment before he writes the text.

_[17:13] I’ll meet you there. I will likely be late, though you know Anthea’s affinity for ignoring speed markers. My apologies, love.  I’ll give you a better estimate on my arrival when I can. MH x_

 

*

 

_Shit._

"How late...?" Greg murmurs in the quiet of his car, reading the text again. He doesn't dare ask.

He's sure Mycroft can't mean _too_ late. Surely he'll be there in time to eat. Greg might have to order for him, maybe - but he means twenty minutes at the most.

He doesn't mean he'll be turning up halfway through them eating... does he?

Mycroft knows about Andy. He knows what this means to Greg.

Breathing in, Greg puts his phone aside.

"Chill," he mutters to himself, reaching for the radio. "Just chill. Stop making a fuss." He starts the engine. "It's going to be fine."

By the time he hits the A13, his thoughts have slumped quietly into the music. It's a pretty evening, sunshine and smooth sailing with the traffic. He wishes Mycroft was in the seat beside him. It would be nice to chat - unwind together after work, spend some time.

Prepare.

Greg knows there's nothing to prepare. There's nothing he needs to say tonight except, _Andy, this is Mycroft, isn't he great? Mycroft, this is Andy - he's not always a dickhead._

He just wishes Mycroft was here to remind him.

Mycroft's way of looking at things always makes them easier to handle.

The drive passes in good time, and Greg makes it into Colchester a few minutes before seven. He parks the car near Church Street. As the engine switches off, the silence closes in around him.

Quietly he reaches for the glovebox, retrieving his phone.

"Please," he murmurs, as he unlocks it. He almost doesn't dare to look. "Please say you're..."

 

*

 

“How. Did he….”

Words have failed him. The fifth known contact of Sherlock in a row has responded to his inquiries by handing Mycroft a photograph of himself with _UTTER PRAT DO NOT ENGAGE_ scrawled across it in Sherlock’s hand.

“He cannot have gone into a print shop without a _single CCTV camera_ picking him up!”

“Sir.” Anthea is trying to manage him, he knows she is, but he is going to lose his entire mind if they cannot come up with a single lead before Sherlock manages to binge his way into a slow death in some sewer without anyone there to notice but the homeless that pass for the closest thing he has to friends. “Sir. Look at the time.”

She sounds strained. It’s unusual, he ponders as he extracts his pocket watch.

_Oh bloody hell._

“Either cancel or you need to go, right now. If Sherlock does not want you to find him you _won’t_ , sir, and you know. _Please._ Get in the car.”

She almost sounds like she’s pleading. Is that what they’ve come to? Or does he simply look that pathetic?

_Gregory. At least I won’t let him down entirely._

Anthea is not entirely gentle as she shoves him into one of the black cars. “I will set up our people to keep an eye. As soon as Sherlock pings a hit on facial recognition we can track him. He can’t evade everywhere.” She closes him in before he can respond. “Get him there fast as you can, yeah?” he hears her say to the driver.

The car feels oppressively silent. _I should have gone with him._ Alone with his own thoughts is often not the kindest environment for Mycroft to linger in.

_Liar. Worthless. Worthless brother, worthless partner…._

_Lucky if Gregory doesn’t leave you after this. Useless. Deserves better than you if you can’t even get there in time to meet his brother._

_Can’t protect him if you can’t even show up on time, can you?_

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly until he can quiet the thoughts for a moment. He should text. He’s promised to text.

_[18:15] I’m so sorry, Gregory. We’re on our way. If there is no traffic I am told we may make it by eight. MH x_

 

*

 

As Greg steps through the door of Il Padrino, he's pale and he knows it. The little family-run restaurant is cosy, candle-lit and smells divine, wine and garlic and fresh seafood. In Colchester, this counts as a busy Friday night. To someone used to London restaurants, it's blissfully quiet.

_Oh god._

_Oh god, you should be here._

He almost wants to throw up. He should be walking through this door with Mycroft's hand in his own, or an arm wrapped around his waist, soothing words being murmured in his ear. He's spent a week imagining this moment, safe and sound in the glow of Mycroft's confidence, knowing that if Andy is an arsehole they'll just get up and walk away with their heads held high.

Instead he's here alone.

He's too early for the table. The waiter is almost alarmed by him turning up at this time, but lets him sit quiet at the bar with a menu to wait. He just needs to settle himself. He needs to find some semblance of calm, or this is going to be a disaster.

_Maybe if I drag out the starters. If we take our time ordering._

Andy and Lizzie should get here at half seven. Mycroft will join them at eight, and that's only thirty minutes. He'll come strolling in through the doors, looking gorgeous, his smart work suit and his umbrella, and no matter how much of a shit Andy's being by that point, Mycroft will breeze in like a fucking hero and make him behave himself. Greg just has to make it until eight. He can do this.

He wishes he could drink. For the first time in years, he misses smoking.

By half seven, he's nearly memorised the menu. He keeps checking his phone just in case there's been some miracle, and Mycroft is right outside. _No New Messages._ He just hopes Friday night traffic hasn't built up - people getting out of London for the weekend.

At half seven on the dot, there comes a gasp of cold air from the opening door. A voice says, delighted, "Greg!"

Lizzie is as lovely as ever. She folds Greg into her arms, happy just to see him, and her fuzzy blonde curls brush over his face as they hug. She seems to hold onto him for a few seconds longer than she usually would - Greg lets her, wishing more than ever he wasn't alone.

As she lets him go, she beams at him. "You look great," she says, fondly. "New jacket."

Just behind her, Andy is already eyeing the bottles behind the bar. His hands are firmly in his pockets, and he has the slightly sullen, guarded look that led Greg's first girlfriend to dub him Evil Greg. He doesn't want to be here; he's not planning to be happy.

"Did you hit the traffic?" Lizzie asks, fondly. "We've heard it's end-to-end on the A12."

Greg's heart falls.

"Oh - no, I got here a bit earlier. End-to-end?" he says.

Lizzie visibly skips at 'I'.

"Myc's been delayed at work," Greg says, trying to smile. "He might be a little tiny bit late. We can order, have our starters, and he'll be with us by eight."

Over Lizzie's shoulder, Andy gives a distinct roll of his jaw. His eyes slide sideways across the room.

"Well, that gives us time to catch up," Lizzie says, completely undeterred, and gives Greg a smile as bright as a little bird. "Let's get our table, and we'll get cosy. The specials look lovely, don't they? Look, Andy, there's swordfish. Your favourite."

Andy's forehead tightens. "When've I _ever_ liked swordfish?" he mutters.

"You love swordfish, sweetheart. You had it in that little place Marbella, remember? You said it was delicious." Lizzie waves with a smile at a nearby waiter. "How's work been, Greg? We saw you on TV for your trial. The girls were so excited, telling all their friends at school."

Greg's mouth replies on auto-pilot as they're led over to their table, the conversation tumbling out of him in hope of masking his panic. He pulls Lizzie's chair out for her, and she tells him he's a sweetheart. Andy reaches for the wine list at once; he has to be prompted to take his coat off.

As Greg sits down, he feels his pocket buzz.

Nervously he pulls his phone free, glancing at it beneath the table.

_Please. Please say you're nearly here._

_Please don't -_

 

*

 

Mycroft hisses from the rear seat. A glimpse of his driver’s face in the rearview lets his passenger know that he’s seriously considering rolling up the divider and not letting it down again.

“Repeat. That.”

“Er- there’s an accident. Sir. I think. Jammed across all the lanes. M’trying to get us over to get off, go ‘round, but, ah-”

Mycroft rolls up the divider himself, silencing the rear of the car so he can let out an extremely frustrated yell in peace.

_Will absolutely anything go right today?_

He draws out his phone and looks at the time. Pulling up Gregory’s number makes his heart feel like it’s shattering.

_I’ve abandoned him. Abandoned him with his brother._

_Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft,_ Mummy’s voice purrs. _You shouldn’t even be here, should you? You should be looking for your brother, probably dead in a drain already, and that’s your fault-_

_And when Gregory leaves you that will be your fault too._

If he were a stronger man there wouldn’t be tears in his eyes from looking at a _phone._

He’ll need to be the Iceman, won’t he, to get through this. _Be cold, be hard, where nothing hurts you._

_That’s who keeps Gregory and Sherlock safe._

_It’s certainly not me._

He tilts his head back, looking at the bulletproof sunroof of the car until his eyes glaze over, emptying himself of thoughts. Of feelings.

When he texts Greg again he doesn’t let himself feel anything at all.

_[19:39] Accident on the A13. We are attempting to go around. Unsure of ETA. Apologies, love. MH x_

 

*

 

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck._

For a second Greg is frozen still, unable to process what he's seeing. _How far along the A13 are you? Are you expecting us to wait? Am I meant to just - just do this myself, then you'll -_

Before he can think, there's a waitress next to their table, asking about drinks and bread for the table. He nervously asks for a diet coke, and agrees with Lizzie that a garlic bread to share would be nice - then the waiter reaches to take the fourth set of cutlery away.

"Oh - no, my - partner's going to be joining us," Greg stammers, and his heart thuds. _Maybe. At some point. 'Unsure of ETA. Apologies love'._ "Just running a bit late, that's all. Can you leave it?"

"Oh! Of course," the waitress says, replacing the cutlery. "Would you like to wait to order until she's here?"

Andy laughs. It's cold; it's blunt. It slashes what little remains of Greg's confidence in half.

As Lizzie leans in for an immediate quiet but firm word with her husband, Greg's face floods with colour.

"Erm - no, it's fine," he says. "He - might be a while."

The waitress falters, mortified; it somehow makes things a hundred times worse. She blushes and starts trying to apologise. Nearby tables, intrigued by her desperate apology, discreetly turn to listen, conversations skipping all around them.

Greg already wants to curl under the table.

"It's fine," he tells her, begging her with his eyes to let it go. "Honestly. Not a problem."

The poor girl apologises again and hurries away, red in the face. Greg has a feeling they'll be seeing a different waitress for the rest of the evening.

Silence falls over the table. The empty chair beside him only seems to be getting emptier by the second.

 _'Apologies love.'_ Greg's heart is pounding and he's not even said a word to Andy yet. He can't stop seeing that text.

_Fuck, do you - do you realise how much this -_

"How's work?"

Greg's heart squeezes. He looks up into his brother's eyes, and finds them watching him closely, unimpressed.

"It's fine," he says. "How's - job hunting?"

Andy huffs. "Shit, unsurprisingly."

"You've got that interview next week," Lizzie reminds him, with a smile. "And you're getting plenty of experience with the ones that don't go right. The more you fail, the better you get at failing."

Andy pushes his tongue around his cheek, watching across the restaurant as their drinks arrive. "If you say so."

It's a different waitress. Greg murmurs his uncomfortable thanks as she puts down his diet coke, then leaves politely.

Silence falls.

"How's work?" he asks Lizzie, tentatively, and as she fills the silence with conversation and stories, Greg has never loved his sister-in-law so much.

He wishes someone else could be here, loving her too.

Andy wouldn't cope, three against one. He'd have to be polite. He might not say much, but he wouldn't be able to sit there like he is now, radiating annoyance from every pore. He'd have to fold - then, in his weary way, he'd have to let it go. Mycroft would get on beautifully with Lizzie. He'd be charming and intelligent and attentive, and Andy wouldn't be able to say a bad word against Mycroft again.

Instead, the meal proceeds as if it's not really started yet.

Even as they're eating, and Greg isn't tasting a mouthful of his garlic mushrooms, he's aware of Andy and Lizzie both waiting - Lizzie, keeping her energy high so she can be nice to Mycroft when he gets here; Andy, just waiting, wary.

The plates are cleared. Conversation is growing thin.

Their new waitress, with intense care, asks if they'd like to order another main course.

Greg glances at his phone. _No new messages._

_Oh god._

"He's - still in traffic," he says, and he finds himself addressing it to Lizzie. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know why he's not here._

"Oh," she says. She smiles. "Will he - be here soon?"

Greg's heart aches. "I don't know."

Andy cuts across the pair of them, speaking to the waitress. "We're not waiting," he says, flatly. "Just bring what we've ordered."

Greg doesn't dare argue. The waitress doesn't dare argue. Lizzie doesn't want to start an argument in front of the staff, and so lets the girl go.

Another silence comes.

"He can always share yours," she says fondly to Greg, her eyes soft. _It's alright,_ he can see her saying, and it makes him want to cry. It's not alright. He knows it's not. Lizzie's kind enough to pretend he's not wasted their time, coming all this way just so Andy can have a front-row view of him being stood up. It hurts like hell.

"Traffic," he says, trying to be brave. His voice cracks. "If he'd - been able to get away from work, he'd have been with me... I'm sorry - "

Andy downs the last of his second glass of wine, inhaling. "This happens often, does it?"

"No," Greg protests. "No, not at all - he's usually - "

It doesn't make any difference. Andy had made his mind up before he even got here, and all tonight has done has backed him up. Greg can see it in his face.

"So much for 'important'," Andy says, directing at his wife with a frown. "So much for 'big deal for Greg'. 'Cause it looks like he's a big deal, doesn't it?"

"Andy," she hisses.

"Mycroft _is_ a big deal," Greg says, feeling his blood run cold. "It's why he's late. He's high up in his job."

Andy raises an eyebrow. "I didn't mean _him."_

Greg feels the blow. It rushes through him, silent and awful. _You meant me._

_You meant I'm not a big deal._

"He's hit traffic," he manages. His throat grips. "That - that doesn't mean... Andy, he really wanted to meet you."

Andy's mouth shrugs. He gestures at the empty chair.

Another chunk of Greg's heart break loose. He feels it drop, his voice dying in his mouth. What can he say to that?

Their mains arrive, and are eaten largely in silence. Even Lizzie can't rescue this now. The sight of Mycroft's empty wine glass makes Greg's food hard to swallow.

As the waitress takes their plates, and he checks the time on his phone, he wants to cry.

"Would you care for dessert?" she asks, brightly.

"No," Andy says, reaching for his wallet.

Lizzie intervenes. "We would like coffee, though."

"We've got coffee at home," Andy mutters at her, and she ignores him, smiling at the waitress as she gently forces his wallet back into his coat.

"Three coffees, please. Thank you so much."

The waitress nods, and heads off to fetch them.

Greg isn't breathing anymore. He knows she's trying, buying him another twenty minutes, one more chance like this isn't an utter fucking disaster, like Mycroft could sweep in now and somehow make this fine and dandy.

Andy, furious, stares silently at an art print on the wall until the coffees arrive. His arms are crossed over his chest. The air around him almost vibrates with anger.

As even the coffee cups are empty, Greg realises he has to say something. This night was meant to make things better. It's somehow made them a hundred times worse, and if he doesn't try now, he suspects he'll never get the chance.

"Andy, I - I wish he'd been here, so you could meet him. I'm sorry he's not."

Andy says absolutely nothing, looking through his wallet for money.

Greg's heart strains, beating so hard it nearly hurts. "I'm happy. Can that be enough?"

"Plenty of asylums full of happy people," Andy mutters, and as Lizzie tries to stop him, he holds a hand up to her face. "No," he says, his voice hard. "That's it. I'm done. You wanted me to come and give the guy a chance? Then there you go."

He drops cash onto the table.

"There was the chance," he said. He gets to his feet, dragging his coat off the back of his chair.

Greg's heart drops through the floor. "Andy..."

Andy looks him in the eye.

"You need to think," he says to Greg. _"Hard._ You've driven off your wife. You're busy driving off your friends, all your family. You're going down the drain. You need to see someone with this. D'you hear?"

Greg can't speak. He can't think.

"Andy," Lizzie pleads. "Andy, it's not Greg's fault - "

Andy ignores her utterly. He starts to leave, making his way between the tables without another word.

Lizzie looks at Greg, pale.

Greg looks back at her.

"I'm sorry," he manages. "I'm - really sorry."

Andy is nearly at the door.

"You'd better get after him," Greg says, feeling the heat break in his eyes. _How can this have gone so wrong?_ "Thanks, Lizzie. F-For trying."

 

*

 

Mycroft sweeps through the front door, swallowing a copious amount of self-loathing with his best “I am a very apologetic politician do forgive me” expression on his face.

He nearly runs square into the hostile doppelgänger of his lover, steps hitching as he casts a brief look over. The Iceman is analytical, being him in the car at this stress level means he hasn’t turned it off.

_Deeply unhappy. Recent uptick in drinking habits._

_Cheating on his wife. Regularly._

_Well. No wonder he gets on with Karen._

Mycroft puts on a semblance of a smile.

_Feel nothing. Greg is the only one allowed emotions tonight. You are a failure and don’t deserve them._

“Oh- you must be Andy. I’m terribly sorry, there was a bad accident on the A13-“

His gaze slides, taking in the woman who matches Greg’s pictures of his sister-in-law ( _kind, maternal, does the majority of the child-rearing)_ and-

Gregory looks more heartbroken than Mycroft has ever seen him.

He swallows. His face doesn’t change. “Hello sweetheart.”

 

*

 

Greg's face doesn't change, either. It's several seconds before he can speak, staring into Mycroft's eyes with the feeling his heart is about to come out of his mouth.

"Hi," he manages.

Nobody moves.

_Fuck, why is this worse?_

_Why would it be better if you hadn't - ?_

It's Andy who breaks the silence.

He visibly slides his tongue across his teeth, then glances at his wife and gives a dog-whistle.

"Oi," he says, "c'mon," and turns to go.

Lizzie's chest heaves. She wants to stay - it's written across her face, the desperate need to make this alright somehow. Her mouth opens. No words come out.

"Come or walk," Andy says, voice hard.

Lizzie's eyes shutter. Colour floods her face. She looks away from Greg and Mycroft, drops her head and follows him, her stride quick, her shoulders stiff.

As she reaches her husband, the hissed start of an argument can be heard. Andy shoves open the door, his jaw set.

" - fucking joke," he says. He doesn't trouble to keep his voice down. "Unbelievable."

 _"Why_ do you have to be so - "

The door swings shut behind them, and they're gone.

Numb, and silent, Greg waits.

 

*

 

Mycroft’s shoulders sag for a brief instant, eyes following Andy and Lizzie out.

_Failure._

His heart tightens as he turns back to Greg to face the damage he’s no doubt done. He steps closer. It’s the least he can do to keep this private. Gregory prefers private.

“Gregory, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-“

For once, he doesn’t have the words.

_Please. Tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything._

 

*

 

Greg's eyes drop to the table - crumpled twenty pound notes Andy left, empty coffee cups, candles burned low in their bottles.

_That was my brother._

_That was my chance to keep my brother._

Greg's throat muscles work. It's a few moments before he speaks - and when he does, his voice isn't quite his own.

"It's fine," he says. His eyes fill briefly with a shine. He breathes it back in silence as he reaches for his wallet, his fingers fumbling on the clasp. "It's... traffic. Not your fault."

 

*

 

_Yes it is._

If Mycroft hadn’t been chasing after his own idiot brother- if he didn’t need to waste so much time worrying that Sherlock is going to end up dead with a needle in his arm- if Mycroft isn’t terrified that if it finally happened he’d actually be _relieved-_

“I would like to make up to you regardless. If I can.” He forces the words out, makes them sound as normal as he can.

“Would you… I would understand if you wanted….”

_To drive back alone. To stay elsewhere._

_To find someone better._

 

*

 

Greg lifts his eyes from the bundle of notes and the bill. He looks into Mycroft's face, his expression pale.

_No-one, before you._

A quiet flat. Netflix beneath his covers in the dark. Weeks which blurred into months; weekends he dreaded, long hours of silence, where the only voices he heard came from a screen. A café where a cat liked to cuddle with him, stand with her soft paws on his chest and look at him - then the day there was a posh boy in a suit, and everything changed.

There'd been nobody before Mycroft. He'd seen his nieces when it was convenient for Andy not to be bothered by them. Andy was distant; he always had been.

_No real difference between distant and gone._

Greg's throat tightens.

 _Doesn't matter._ Lots of people don't have families. It would have been nice, maybe - sit here together - watch Lizzie fall in love with Mycroft - watch Andy reluctantly let go of his reservations, then part as friends, hug Andy goodbye by the car, drive home with Mycroft and wake up tomorrow feeling like a weight was lifted, like he could have Mycroft _and_ his brother, not one or the other.

It would've been nice.

As Greg stands up, he's visibly on the verge of tears. He moves to Mycroft slowly, and without a word steps into his arms to be held. He turns his face into Mycroft's neck to hide. He's made enough of a scene here - they've been the evening's cabaret for the other diners already. He doesn't want them to see him cry.

He shakes in total silence, his arms round Mycroft's waist.

_You._

_Can't be your number one. More important things than me. Have to cope with that._

_Still you._

_Nothing without you. Lonely before you. No-one else but you._

As he buries his face in Mycroft's neck, Andy's voice seems to curl around his heart - gripping, hurting him. _'You're going down the drain. D'you hear?'_

But Greg was going down the drain long before now.

He was never going to be Andy's number one.

At least he can be Mycroft's second place.

 

*

 

“Okay, love, come on. I’ve got you.”

Mycroft wraps Greg in one arm, guides him slowly out the door. His own assigned car is still in the car park- it will follow them back, the driver serving double duty as a bodyguard, albeit at a distance. He shakes his head briefly when he sees the driver pop out of the front, looking to see if they’re coming with him- Mycroft has ruined enough of this evening for Gregory, the least he can do is give him a private space to deal with the fallout.

“Do you have your keys, love? I’ll drive, is that alright?”

Tasks. He’ll get through this if he can think of it as tasks, as boxes he can check until everything is fine again. Gregory could break fully into tears at any moment, he won’t be able to see straight.

_Useless as a partner, but at least I can get him home safely._

_Home- if he even wants to-_

“Would you still like to come to mine, love? I haven’t watched that nice baking show yet- could put that on in bed- get you a bit of tea-”

 

*

 

Greg can't quite force his throat to speak yet. The prolonged stress and shock of the last few hours have paralysed him into silence. He feels almost too small to have a voice, and while the questions are loving and kind, he can't bring himself to say small practical things - _yes, it's best if you drive - yes, I want to go with you -_ not when he wants to say, _where were you? Why weren't you with me? Why aren't you upset?_

The answer to all of them is, _something of greater importance._

Silence seems safer than that.

It means his responses are mute grips of Mycroft's hand, or soundless single nods. As they make their way to his car, he stays as close to Mycroft's side as he can, desperate not to be out of contact. Even leaving Mycroft's embrace in order to get into the passenger seat fills him with distress.

As the car starts, the radio comes on automatically - late night pop. Greg doesn't seem to hear it. He neither turns it off nor turns it up, and instead sits without a sound at Mycroft's side, looking down at the cuffs of his coat.


	9. Chapter 9

The ride back is painfully silent.

Mycroft eventually flips the radio station to classical, simply because he cannot possibly listen to some teenage “bop” any longer. At least he can lose himself a little in Vivaldi and Brahms.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he changes the channel. Doesn’t even look at him.

He fight the urge to shrink away in his seat, trying to keep his eyes on the road instead. A road that’s clear, now. No traffic going back into London, not at this hour. On the other side of the road they’ve even got the accident cleared up.

_How efficient._

The light over his entryway flickers when he turns the key, holding the door for Greg. Marmalade is chirping and purring just inside the secondary door, attempting to immediately lead them up to the kitchen.

_Dinner for me now, please._

Mycroft sighs quietly. _Yes, love, I suppose one of us should eat._

It won’t be him. Stress and eating never go well together, it just makes him nauseous.

“Tea, Gregory?” he offers quietly, hoping despite the lack of sense in it that tea will actually solve this for him.

“There’s a nice, ah… honey ginger… meant to be calming, I think….”

 

*

 

Greg leans down to pick Marmalade up as they enter the kitchen, gathering her gently into his arms. She squirms a little, concerned by the apparent lack of urgency regarding her dinner.

Greg receives the offer of tea with a quiet glance, his expression guarded. He's not sure a lack of calm is his major problem at the moment. If anything, the opposite feels like it's true. Part of him _wants_ to be upset, wants to sob and beg and cling like kids do, get angry over the things he can't change. The numbness is distressing; it's the only real option.

It feels pathetic that these are his first words in hours - but he can't stay silent for the rest of his life.

"Thank you... I'd - like that."

He carries Marmalade to the cupboard where her tins of special food are kept, reaching inside for the nearest. He checks the label - salmon. Usually he'd ask her if he's suitable, fuss her, kiss her head and make sure salmon was an acceptable dinner this evening. It doesn't feel like he can be playful that way right now.

He puts her on the countertop gently, gets the tin opener and removes the lid. As she butts him on the arm, chirping, he dips his head and lets her nuzzle him.

"I know," he murmurs, his voice soft. "S'coming, sweetheart. M'sorry."

 

*

 

Mycroft has never been less certain what the correct course of action is. He settles for quietly lifting Marmalade’s special little bowl and setting it beside Gregory while they wait for the kettle.

He doesn’t wait too close, however, he doesn’t want to intrude on any time Marmalade might uplift Gregory with her love. Love that Mycroft feels undeserving of, at the moment, so he sets himself off, occupying his hands by slowly sifting through the contents of the tea cabinet and reviewing the contents of his phone’s messages.

Anthea has narrowed down Sherlock’s location, but beyond that they have not pinned him down. As far as their notes are aware, however, he does not have a known dealer in the area, so at least that is working in their favor.

She’s also forwarded on another picture, this one a brief CCTV capture of Sherlock from the side, his Belstaff swirling. It’d be a nice photo, if Mycroft didn’t know he was running off from rehab.

_Confirmed alive, anyway. That’s enough for now._

When he looks up again the kettle is boiling, and he pours in silence, listening to Marmalade’s little happy eating noises.

“Here you go, love.”

 

*

 

_God, you're..._

_Even now._

It's the first time Greg's ever wanted to take a phone out of Mycroft's hands. _'Didn't you get enough done earlier?'_ He hates how easily angry things are coming to mind. Tonight he watched his twin brother walk out of his life. _And you're checking your e-mails like we just got in from work. Like it's not nearly midnight._

_Like nothing went wrong today._

Greg runs his hand quietly along Marmalade's back as she eats, not touching his mug of tea. Everything feels like it's too much to say. Two hours of silence is too much time to think.

He almost wishes they were back outside the restaurant, walking to the car with Mycroft's arm around him.

_Not meant to feel like this. Not with you. Not like this._

As Marmalade cleans off her whiskers at last, little swipes of her small pink tongue, her round eyes turn up towards them. The look she gives them is shy, a little wary.

She trills, unsettled by the silence.

Greg starts to cry.

 

*

 

“Love?”

Mycroft edges closer, like Gregory is a precious animal he’s fearful of spooking. His mind keeps running through options. _Get Gregory in bed, sleeping- I can solve this by morning, certainly. Something will come to mind by then._

_Or- does he want to talk about it?_

_What if he leaves?_

_Come on, Holmes, you’re good at talking. Talk._

“Gregory- I should- apologize further. I don’t….”

Mycroft stares into the depths of his tea, like it might suddenly bestow him with wisdom he is obviously lacking. A sudden emotional clarity on the exact thing he can say to… fix it. Back to what they had before Karen started sticking her nose in. Before Gregory was so fragile.

_Before I was an utter failure as a partner._

“I- what I was doing today, I’ve never- it’s always been the most pressing… when it comes up, it supersedes everything else. And I’ve never wanted… I’ve never wanted to put something else before it. Someone else. Before you.”

 

*

 

Greg presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, shaking as the tears flow silent and hot beneath them. He can't stop seeing Andy's face, telling him he needs to think. He won't see his nieces again. They're going to grow up thinking Uncle Greg had a mid-life crisis, then went mental and gay and never contacted them again.

The words crack their way out of him, miserable and exhausted and grieving.

"I - I needed you - I _needed_ you to - "

His hands push back into his hair, screwing tight.

_He knows. He knows you needed him. He's trying to tell you, dickhead, that it doesn't matter. You can't come first. Why d'you want him to spell it out? Just leave it._

Pain twists through Greg's chest as he covers his face, trying to breathe.

"M-My brother - Andy - he's my brother and he's gone. He's gone because he thinks I'm a mess. Everyone thinks I'm a mess. And all I wanted was to show him I - show him I matter to - "

His throat seals shut. He gasps, shaking; fresh tears form.

"Fuck. _F-Fuck._ That was my family. They're gone."

 

*

 

“You matter to me, you do-“

Mycroft isn’t sure what Greg is going through. He’s never once in his life had the relationship with Sherlock that he thinks Greg has- had- with Andy. He worries about Sherlock _dying_ , not rejecting him.

“I will be your family,” he says, his mouth acting before he can parse the meaning of his own words.

“Lizzie doesn’t agree with him, you know- I could see it in her- she’ll bring the girls around, one day. I will meet them. Ice cream, maybe, or a museum. They’ll want to meet Marmalade. We’ll make it work, Gregory.”

He steps closer, reaching out to tentatively embrace Greg like he’s made of thin glass and may shatter at any moment. “Until then… if you want me,   
I will be here. But….”

The thought arcs through his heart like a blade, but it is honest. He must say it.

“I would rather see you happy than anything else, Gregory. Whether that is with me or… not. If you would rather… if you would rather go to them, and tell them it’s over….”

He breathes, steadying himself. Surely, that is what Gregory will choose. His family and his nieces over the sad and sorry wreck of his partner.

“I… would understand if you would rather do that.”

 

*

 

Greg stares at Mycroft as he listens, a mess of tears and shock inside his arms. His eyes move quickly over Mycroft's face, trying to follow something, trying to work something out. Beneath the pale grief, concern fills his gaze.

"You - you think I'd be _happy_ without you?" he whispers.

Shaking, he cups Mycroft's jaw. New tears gleam as he studies Mycroft's face.

"You wouldn't understand," he says. His chest heaves. "If I did that. You wouldn't understand at all. Because I love you. Y-You're the world to me. You're everything and you always have been. I'm _hurt_ because I wanted them to _like you -_ to know you - to see you care about me - I wanted you to know them because you _matter._ Why would I _leave?"_

Sudden pain tightens his expression. The thought is too much to keep. He swallows, breathing in hard.

"Do you _want_ me to leave? Or are we a family? W-Which is it? You can't hold me between those. You can't expect me to cope like that. Do you want me?"

 

*

 

“I want you. I want you, Gregory, please-”

Mycroft doesn’t know what he’s asking for. _Please be happy? Please just tell me what I meant to do?_

Neither of them seem like reasonable requests.

It’s times like these he wishes he didn’t have his particular set of gifts at all. He might have had a normal upbringing, with normal children, and picked up the damnably easy way most of them just _know_ what’s best to say or do, what will actually help make another human _feel_ better.

Instead, he’s only ever been given the tools to manipulate, not to understand. But he is _trying._

_Can he see it? Can he see I’m telling the truth?_

“I’ll be your family. You’re right, I wouldn’t understand, but I’m- I want you to be happy. Stay with me, I’ll make you happy, I’ll give you _everything-”_

Gregory’s fingertips are digging in a little hard, slightly painful points encircling Mycroft’s jaw. _Probably has no idea he’s doing it._ He’s too fraught.

“I love you, beautiful. I love you. May I hold you, for a while? Please?”

 

*

 

As they step into Mycroft's bedroom, the lights are all still out. Greg doesn't want them on. He's tired of light and noise and pain; they need quiet, and stillness, and skin.

Marmalade follows as far as the door, a little ghost just behind them in the darkness. She settles in her cat bed outside Mycroft's bedroom, used to this routine by now. _Human alone time._ They'll go warm the bed, and fall to sleep, and she'll join them in the night. It's just what humans do.

Clothes come off beside the bed, quietly and swiftly. There's nothing sensual in this undressing - there's no passion, only closeness and care. Greg can't cope with the thought of pyjamas. By the time they get beneath the covers together, they're naked and the night air has raised goosebumps across Greg's skin. The wrap of their arms is warm and tight; he pulls the covers high.

Shaking a little, he kisses Mycroft's cheek.

"Love you."

That, of all the things to be said, is most important.

"Love you so much." As his fingers card through Mycroft's hair, Greg finds himself rolling towards calm once more. He feels as if he's on a stormy ocean, grief one moment and anger the next, now love, the need to comfort and hold tight - the need to hold on. "I - I get that you're important. I get that there's important things you do. M'sorry. I don't mean to be like this."

 

*

 

_All this. All this and HE is apologizing._

The fact that Mycroft’s heart does not immediately shatter may be further testimony to the fact that if he has one, it is a weak, depleted little thing.

“Gregory, don’t apologize, please. My-” He stops himself before he directly blames work. _Liar._ “...there are things I do that are important, but I do not wish for any of them to supercede you. Even when they must. I would rather be with you. Always.”

He runs his hands over Greg’s skin, warming the faint chill he can still feel, like a palpable misery that won’t quite leave Greg entirely.

“I am sorry for letting you down. I failed you, love. I would like to make it up to you, if I can.”

_If you can tell me how._

Mycroft cannot think of anything that would equal the disaster he’s caused that would somehow balance the scales. It feels, instead, like the whole of it has been precariously tipped, and he’s still awaiting an inevitable collapse.

“I love you, Gregory. More than anything.”

 

*

 

_'I would like to make it up to you, if I can.'_

Greg can't really remember the last time he was on this side of an apology.

When he was married, it was always him trying to make amends - trying to put things right - to demonstrate _more_ love, _more_ patience, _more_ understanding. It took a long time for him to see things as they were. Years passed before the thought crossed his mind that something wasn't right. He'd thought it was normal, and marriage was just like that - a husband always in the wrong, a wife he constantly upset without meaning to. Karen had never apologised to him once, not for anything.

In her mind she'd never done anything wrong.

As he nuzzles into Mycroft's neck, Greg finds himself quietly unsettled. He feels like an aggrieved wife, demanding flowers or dinner or some other show of apology for perceived wrongdoing. It's not Mycroft's fault that his responsibilities will sometimes scupper plans, even important ones. It's Greg's place to fit into that system and make his peace with it.

But Mycroft's distress is breaking his heart - and as he hugs Mycroft, kissing his cheek, Greg realises this isn't about offering reparation and tribute. It's about bonding again, a show of love.

Maybe it's important for both of them, that chance to make some special show of, _we are fine. All is well._

"I love you..." Greg's throat tightens as he swallows. "I love you so much. I - I know I'm important to you. M'sorry. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. I know you didn't mean it. And - and you got there - you - you sh-shouldn't have to - Andy's ego..."

He hesitates. When he speaks, he's quiet; anxiety softens his voice.

"Guess I... I wanted - you and me. Official, you know? Meeting Andy. Would've been a big deal. I - want to feel like a big deal. M'sorry. That's pathetic. I just love you so much. I'd build my life around you if I could. And you tell me I'm important all the time, and I shouldn't need to you to _show it_ \- I'm sorry - I'm really sorry."

 

*

 

“Gregory.” Mycroft curls his fingers into Greg’s hair, marvelling that he still has permission to do so after all this. “Stop apologizing, please.”

A part of Mycroft wants to blame Andy for this. He’s clearly homophobic, after all. And an rude, thoughtless arsehole to his brother besides. But Mycroft has always taken responsibility for everything around him.

Most especially his own errors.

Perhaps he should take it as a good thing. Mycroft has never been involved with someone long enough, or intimately enough, for there to be any real arguments. Like he is in many other ways, Gregory is an exception. Because Gregory is exceptional.

“At the conference reception, I am going to treat you like a king in front of the world’s major players. You will be the most important person in that room. You will be as big a deal as you are comfortable with. Yes?”

He presses a kiss to Greg’s temple, gentle and soft and loving.

“Just as you are the most important person in this room right now.”

 

*

 

Greg's arms tighten gently around Mycroft's waist. He can feel their heartbeats, talking to each other through their bare skin, and it doesn't matter which is his and which is Mycroft's. It's the most comforting sensation he could imagine right now; Mycroft's fingers through his hair come a close second.

It's easy to close his eyes, rest, and let some of the pain flow free.

It still hurts when he thinks of Andy, and when he thinks of how this evening could have been.

 _We're okay,_ he thinks, feeling it more and more with every breath. _We're alright, and that's what matters._

"Can we... go for dinner, maybe?" he murmurs. "When your work thing settles. It's been a while since we had a date." He flushes, glancing almost shyly into Mycroft's eyes. "I know I - s-sort of skipped us ahead and just moved in, but... we can still do dating, right?"

He hesitates, stroking his thumb under Mycroft's lips.

"I don't mind when. A night it won't cause you problems."

 

*

 

“Of course, love. Anywhere you like.”

He holds in a sigh of relief. Dinner is easy. Mycroft can manage that. Really, anything that involves solving problems with his bank card comes very naturally. Confidence floods back through him, buoyed by love.

“Do you ever go to the West End, beautiful? I can take you to make a night of it… dinner and a show. Something romantic.”

The edges of his eyes crinkle softly, and he casts aside the flickers of doubt. He’ll have Sherlock managed soon. Karen will give up eventually. No one can hold on to that kind of vitriol forever. He can schedule a pleasant date and keep it. Anthea will help him ensure it.

“Then we’ll go out to the lake house, after the conference. I’m going to rent a boat and lock my phone away and we’ll go sit in the middle of the lake. They’ll have to send a helicopter if they need me to spend even one minute doing anything other than adoring you.”

He tilts his lips down to kiss Greg’s thumb.

“And I do intend to adore you quite thoroughly.”

 

*

 

It's a relief to see Mycroft smile. Greg finds himself smiling too, watching with growing warmth as Mycroft kisses his thumb. Dinner, a show... the lake house... _Christ, why did Andy have to be such a dickhead? Just walking out. So we finished dinner - it wasn't that late - we could've gone for a drink... he didn't need to be like that..._

Maybe Andy was never going to like Mycroft. Greg's glowy dream of the four of them bonding over dinner might have been a fairytale all along. Andy could have dug his heels in, kept being ruder and ruder in hope of reaction - found something to blow up about in the end.

Greg gazes into Mycroft's eyes, the squeezing of his heart visible on his face.

_You're trying. You're really trying. You sat in traffic for hours just to get there._

_So there's something comes ahead of me._

_Doesn't matter._

He leans close, placing his lips gently against Mycroft's - the kiss is small and soft, and full of care.

"You... know I wouldn't leave, don't you?" Greg pauses, brushing his fingers over Mycroft's cheek. "This isn't fragile like that. I wouldn't go, just because... i-it'd take a lot to make me go. A whole lot. Honestly, unless there was cheating, I... I'd want to stick around. Work things out."

His throat tightens.

"I'm - s-sentimental like that. I love you. That doesn't break with one knock."

 

*

 

Hearing it out loud is enough to make Mycroft flush, because he had, actually, thought Greg might. Not because he’s weak or fickle, but because somewhere in Mycroft’s soul he’s convinced Gregory can do better.

His embrace tightens, and he nestles his cheek into Greg’s hand.

“I do not have much… experience… with long term commitments. Or- working things out. But I would like to. With you.”

_I shall be your protector with Karen. Be my rock of normalcy._

It should have been obvious, really. Greg stayed for years with Karen, trying to fix that and she was… well. Mycroft doesn’t want to think overly hard about how Karen treated Greg, lest he slide from happy to rage.

“I love you too.”

He kisses Greg back, firmer, to match the strength of their bond. _My lover. My beloved. I will be better for you. I will._

“May I… if you would like to simply sleep that is fine, but- would you like me to take care of you, a little?”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes flutter shut as they kiss. He leans into Mycroft's arms, closer, enjoying the contact and the simple relief of their lips together. It's soothing, in a way, to realise their bond is strong enough to hold distress inside it. They're alright. He feels much closer to Mycroft than he did this morning.

The night hasn't gone how he thought it would - but they're here, they're together and they're close, and it's all Greg could need in the world.

Tomorrow at work, he can do some thinking. Mycroft's right that Lizzie might still come to see them. He doesn't really want to create strife between Lizzie and Andy - but from the look of things, there's enough of that already.

It can wait until tomorrow, though. Tonight, nothing matters but their bond.

As Mycroft speaks, Greg's pupils swell a little. _'May I'._ He flushes, his instinctive hope softened by hesitancy; his eyes flicker to Mycroft's mouth.

"Are you sure? You drove us all that way back... and you had a long day..."

 

*

 

“I want to. Very much.”

He tilts closer, lips connecting with just a little bit of hunger in them. It doesn’t feel like penance, this desire to show Gregory how much he cherishes him in every way.

It’s simply love.

Mycroft widens the span of his hands, running them gently over Greg’s back, touching as much skin as he can, feeling every detail with intimate care. He deepens the kiss as he slides them around to Greg’s chest, tracing the lines of his muscles from jaw to hip.

His pupils are wide when he softly shifts his kisses from Gregory’s lips to the soft, sensitive skin under his ear.

“What would you like, beautiful? May I offer you my mouth?”

 

*

 

Greg shivers quietly under the pass of Mycroft's hands, leaning into his lover's body. It's comforting just to be touched - to be admired like this, as if he's being cherished without words.

As Mycroft whispers to him, his shiver deepens in response. He feels it course across the back of his neck, rippling, raising the hair. His breath audibly catches.

"M-Myc..." His hands tighten on Mycroft's back. He lifts his chin, hopeful, his pulse quickening as he imagines Mycroft's mouth winding lower. Oral was the first intimacy they ever shared. It reminds him of that first night in his flat, restless and overwhelmed as the gorgeous stranger he'd met only hours ago pulled his clothes away, kissed him, made him feel like he was perfectly, beautifully, desperately _normal._

"Myc, I love you - I mean it..."

 

*

 

Mycroft hums over Greg’s throat, kissing, licking, letting his teeth drag. He’d been planning for slow and gentle but Gregory is simply so _responsive_ that he can’t help wanting a bit more.

“I love you too, Gregory.”

His kisses drift lower as his hands stroke Greg’s hips, close but not yet reaching to take him in hand. There’s time for that yet. At the slope of Greg’s collarbone Mycroft pauses to leave a small mark.

_Still mine, after all this. I do love you so._

He peels back the covers as he moves, taking the time to appreciate every lovely bit of skin he reveals with his eyes and mouth alike.

“You’re so beautiful, love. Perfect. Do you know that?”

When he reaches the vee of Greg’s pelvis Mycroft dips lower, ignoring his lover’s cock for the moment and kissing across his balls instead, licking a stripe across the center while looking up to appraise himself of Greg’s enjoyment.

 

*

 

"Ohh - s-shit - "

Greg gasps, staring down. He can't pull his eyes away. It's not right, how Mycroft looks doing this. It blitzes Greg's senses into nothing, watching his lover's tongue flash over his balls, so close - those eyes - those beautiful fucking eyes - Mycroft looks _human_ doing this. Nobody else gets to see this.

_God._

_Fuck Andy._

_Fuck him._

_I don't want him to meet you. He doesn't deserve to know you. I just want you here like this, just for me. Just us._

It's other people, Greg realises, his stomach tightening. Other people cause the problems. When the two of them are here like this, nothing is wrong in the whole damn world.

He reaches a tentative hand to Mycroft's hair, his fingers shaking as they brush back the dishevelled strands. His pupils grow.

"L-Love, will you... let me for you, too?" Nervousness flushes his cheeks. "I want you."

 

*

 

“Mmm.” Mycroft noses against the plumping cock before him, gently taking as much of the sack beneath as he can into his mouth and sucking lightly. He loves watching Gregory drift into arousal, setting aside whatever cares the day had just to spend this time together, caring for each other.

Perhaps it’s a bit selfish, in this case, but Mycroft is not going to worry about that now.

He kisses up to the base of Greg’s cock, inhaling the scent of him, so overtly masculine and so _Greg._ “Of course, love. Whatever you like.”

 _Have me however you like._ Mycroft still feels like he owes Gregory. He knows himself enough to admit that. That debt will not be easily paid, but in the meantime he will do _anything_ in his power to lessen the debt.

Lapping steadily, Mycroft takes his time tasting and lavishing attention all the way up to Greg’s frenulum, letting his breath and the night air provide a stimulating variation in temperature. When his eyes look up to Greg’s there’s a deep devotion in them, dark and earnest.

_I would do this all night, if you wished it._

 

*

 

A huff of soft frustration leaves Greg's mouth, colour rising in his face as he watches Mycroft tend to him. The eye contact feels just as intimate as the tonguing of his cock; there's something comforting about being held in Mycroft's gaze like this.

His cock twitches a little as Mycroft reaches the head.

Greg makes a tiny sound, sinking his teeth into his lip, and stirs against the mattress.

"Myc..."

Timidly he cups Mycroft's jaw in one hand. He gives the gentlest little pull, hardly daring, but he wants it so much.

"Please," he whispers. He's more than willing to beg. "P-Please."

 

*

 

 _“Please”_ is likely to be the source of Mycroft’s undoing, one day. He cannot truly resist it, much as he likes to tease.

Besides, Gregory is biting his lip. He knows how affecting it is, Mycroft is sure of it. _Hellion._

He holds Greg’s gaze, letting himself be guided by the touch, showing how obedient he can be to the little gesture- when he wants to be, at any rate. _Place me where you need me, love._ _It’s alright._

His lips wrap over the head and he sucks lightly, toying the underside with his tongue. “If you like, hellion… you may fuck my mouth,” he says deliberately in the brief interlude when he pauses for air before descending further and bobbing with slow and decided purpose.

 

*

 

Greg doesn't let go of Mycroft's gaze for a moment. Pleasure wracks his face, his mouth opening with the initial shock of sensation. He inhales hard as Mycroft takes him in. The slow bobbing induces a tight shudder of enjoyment, and his fingers brush back through Mycroft's hair, hopeful and grateful.

"F-Fuck - fuck, Myc - "

The muscles in Greg's thighs tense. Shifting against the sheets unwinds the pressure for him and he shudders, struggling to keep his head up and watch. He wants Mycroft's eyes on his. He needs that right now. He doesn't just want to lie back and be given pleasure - it's Mycroft he wants, contact and closeness, and the sight of his partner watching him enjoy this makes his heart strain.

Trembling with the realisation, Greg's breath cuts in a whimper. He reaches his other hand for Mycroft's and knots their fingers together, pleasure tightening his expression.

"Myc - "

His thighs push apart a little; he grips Mycroft's hand.

 

*

 

Mycroft lifts a brow. He squeezes Greg’s hand, reassuring him, grounding him. _I am right here, beautiful._

Drawing off, he places one of his own fingers into his mouth, wrapping it with his tongue and coating it with saliva. He pulls it out again with a scandalously wet pop and brings it to the knot of muscle below Greg’s balls.

“Yes, Gregory? Is this what you want, love?”

He waits dutifully for confirmation before he slides the finger in just to the second knuckle, enough to offer a little feeling of fullness to go with the sliding and sucking of his mouth as he leans down to take in Greg’s cock once more.

As much as he can, he keeps his eyes up.

_I love you, I love you so…._

 

*

 

"Fuck - fuck, please - "

Greg's thighs open further as Mycroft strokes him, asks. He shifts and arches his back a little, his breath thickening into panting as he feels Mycroft breach his body. He digs his teeth into his lip, muffling his groan; his muscles grip, hugging Mycroft's finger.

As Mycroft starts to slide again, sucking on him, Greg's groan finally escapes him. It tightens into a whimper, his cock twitching. His fingers curl in Mycroft's hair, then consciously relax, desperate not to hurt.

"Ohh - Myc - "

His hips rock down. A soft huff of frustration aches from his throat.

"M-Myc - Myc, oh god - "

 

*

 

Mycroft hums his pleasure in Greg’s response around his cock, letting the vibrations carry. He opens his throat to Greg’s shifting, taking him in deeper still. He’s utterly gorgeous like this, arced and moaning, hair dishevelled and the sheets in disarray around him.

_I might need to more seriously consider finding a way to get him photographed._

There is the internal CCTV, but that won’t do. Besides, for the benefit of Anthea’s eyes (or, more specifically, her commentary on the matter that Mycroft himself may be subject to), he usually has it set to record only in the event of a security breach.

He lets his finger press in further, very gentle, just enough for him to curl it and reach Greg’s prostate with a long, careful stroke.

_Right there, love. Let me hear you. Let me see you._

 

*

 

Greg jerks, letting out an involuntary sound as Mycroft's touch slides across his prostate. Pleasure prickles hot in its wake. Mycroft's deft control of his body makes him feel weak and warm and safe, and the snug humming heat around his cock is pulling him to the brink far faster than he'd have expected. Their emotional evening has left him raw; it feels like he wants to give way.

Just the knowledge he's lying here in Mycroft's bed, comfortable and safe, is exciting him - lying here as Mycroft tends to his cock, tends to his prostate, does all the things he likes and bathes him in them, familiar pleasure, his body burning.

_My boyfriend. My partner._

They got upset, and it's still fine. They still have this - closeness. It's all still here.

Panting, stretching against the sheets, Greg lets his head drop back at last. Mycroft's ceiling wavers in his vision. He combs his fingers through Mycroft's hair to stop himself from gripping, biting his lower lip between his teeth and palpating it in rhythm. This isn't going to take long. The need to come and then to be cuddled is overwhelming. Greg's hips arch; anxiously he starts to rock, searching for the rhythm he needs to get there. His sounds are growing harder to hold back.

 

*

 

Mycroft matches Greg’s rhythm, needing little encouragement to provide the other side of the pattern both his mouth and hand. He still feels as if he _owes_ Greg this, owes him a blistering orgasm and all the care he can muster. He honestly doesn’t care if Greg sees to him afterward, Mycroft can go without himself if he’s certain Greg is contented.

“Let me hear you, love,” he breathes between bobs. He can feel Greg’s fingers winding in his hair, stopping short of guiding and pulling. _No, love- take everything you need from me. Don’t hold back._

He lifts with a little grin. “Pull my hair if you want to.”

Dipping down once more he takes Greg in as deep as he can, sucking him when he rocks back and letting his throat hold his lover when he shifts forward. _Yes, fuck me, fuck my mouth- let me make it up to you, please-_

His finger curls again, intensifying the pressure and tracing a pattern onto that sensitive spot.

_Come for me, beautiful._

 

*

 

_Oh - ohh, fuck -_

As the heat and tightness of Mycroft's throat engulf Greg's cock, his breath cracks and he whimpers. Nothing should feel this good. His nervous rocking seems to lull him between two perfect pleasures, shyly fucking Mycroft's mouth and then grinding down against the stroking of his prostate, one after the other. As he finds the rhythm he needs, it's impossible not to cry out.

 _"Oh...!_ Oh, god - "

Gasping, his head drops back.

"Fuck, fuck - "

Mycroft's hair feels soft. He doesn't want to hurt, doesn't want to demand - but tightening his fingers feels almost primally good - gripping just a little, enough to show, _just there, just there,_ holding pleasure where he needs it, and the words are what make him feel safe. _'Pull my hair if you want to.'_ Mycroft doesn't mind. This is okay.

"Oh god," he whines, gasping in, "oh god, close," but the warning is already too late. He feels himself starting to break. Pleasure blisters up through Greg's body and he heaves, calling out, his grip finally tightening as his muscles clench around Mycroft's finger. His hips push up from the bed as he hits his climax.

The stream which leaves him is full of Mycroft's name, pleaded over and over.

 

*

 

Mycroft swallows around Greg’s cock, taking all of it and enjoying the mild roughness of Greg’s hand in his hair and the press of his bucked up hips into his throat. He gently coaxes his lover through it, guiding his hips back to the bed when he’s fully spent and slowly removing his hand and mouth, softly kissing along his hips and stroking the flushed skin with tender care.

“Beautiful, love. You’re always so beautiful.”

He slides up the bed, watching as Greg comes down from his high and feeling even fonder than he had before. _My love. Still here. Still loving me._ Mycroft wants to give him the world.

He’ll settle for a earth-shattering orgasm.

Perhaps it’s time to look at the paperwork required for a more formal sharing of his home. Gregory is already effectively living with him. Mycroft can give him everything he needs, taking care of him and keeping him safe from Karen.

His fingers play over Greg’s abdomen as he watches his lover breathe, a loving smile in his eyes.

“I love you, darling.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's kisses feel like gentle wings brushing Greg's skin. They form tiny points of sensation amongst the dizzy haze, soft and intense at once; each one is like a little echo of climax. His muscles all ache. His blood feels hot. Breathing takes what small amount of focus he has, and as he nestles into Mycroft's arms, craving a few moments just to cuddle before they carry on, those words shine through Greg in a wave.

_'I love you, darling.'_

Making love with Mycroft is a long, lingering, wordless _'I love you'._ It's been that way from the start. Even that first night, Greg thinks, it was a gentle whisper. _I love that I've met you. I love talking to you. I love your eyes on me._

Now it is, _I love all of you. I love everything of you._

As Mycroft strokes his abdomen, Greg feels his muscles quiver. _All of me loves all of you. My skin loves your skin. My body loves your hands. My mouth loves your mouth._

"I love you," he breathes, and it doesn't feel like enough. He strokes his fingers through Mycroft's hair, exhaling in a rush. His eyes close. "I-I love you..."

He'll say it properly in a moment, he thinks - say it with his hands, his mouth - take the time to say it with his skin, and cherish Mycroft until it overflows and leaves him feeling like this. He just needs a minute to be cradled, to let his heart quieten - one more minute to rest, so he has the strength to say it back. He just wants to stroke Mycroft's hair like this a few more moments.

He doesn't mean to slip to sleep. He drifts off in Mycroft's arms in little over a minute, washed away by the glut of hormones and comfort, and barely moves throughout the night.

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Greg wakes up, it's with the unsettling sensation he's forgotten something. 

It sweeps the fog from his sleepy mind at once, and presents him with all recent memories for inspection. Work - the drive to Colchester -  _ Christ, the restaurant.  _ Lizzie. Andy. Mycroft. The drive  _ back _ from Colchester, the painful and heavy silence not dispersed whatsoever by classical music. Home.

_ Home.  _

Tears, frightened.

Bed. Loving arms - loving murmurs - comfort, care.

_ Oh.  _

_ Oh god, I fell asleep -  _

Greg stirs in bed, opening his eyes. Mycroft lies beside him in the half-darkness. A glance at the bedside clock reveals it's early enough that no alarms have gone off yet, but late enough for Marmalade to vacate the bed for a stroll and her cat box.

Watching Mycroft sleep, Greg's heart wraps itself into a warm knot inside his chest.

_ Looked after me. Reassured me. Christ, I was such a mess -  _

He almost wants to groan at the memories. He didn't drink a drop of alcohol last night, but got as emotional as if he'd been knocking back gin since five. His brother had made him feel like a fractious fourteen-year-old again. In the quiet peace of the early morning, the clarity takes his breath.

_ Andy is a twat. Lizzie deserves better. When people expect me to please them, I do it without thinking, and I shouldn't. _

_ And you're the world to me. _

Mycroft had driven for hours to get there. He could have just cancelled - he hadn't. Even after some major work crisis, he'd crawled through traffic to be there. 

And even after Andy stormed off, making it all a waste, Mycroft hadn't said a bad word about him. He'd just looked after Greg. Driven him all the way home. Mycroft hadn't eaten - hadn't spent more than five minutes outside of a car.

_ Holy shit. I fuss about not being your top priority. Then I don't even think about you. _

As Greg nestles in behind Mycroft, spooning against his lover's back, he realises they need time off. They need to get out to the lake house at last, and just be together for a while, away from all the chaos caused by other people. 

_ And I need to look after you until then. Properly. Be understanding for you, like you are for me. _

He loops an arm around Mycroft's waist, pressing his lips to the side of Mycroft's neck - soft, slow kisses. 

_ You are perfect. You are everything I need.  _

His fingers brush over Mycroft's chest, palm resting flat over his heart. 

_ We'll be alright. I'll make it alright. I promise. _

 

*

 

Mycroft shifts, nestling against the warmth at his back and the gentle brushes of soft skin near his throat.

_ Comfortable. _

He brings his own hand up instinctually, before he’s even halfway awake, and lays it over Greg’s, twining their fingers together. One eye cautiously flicks open.

_ Still dark.  _

_ Not moving yet. _

It’s time for them alone, still. A little while until they have to give themselves over to others- other duties, other expectations, other people.

His head turns, just enough to see if his lover is also awake, turning his cheek to meet Gregory’s gentle kisses.

“Hello love.” His words are soft and sleepy- a whisper is always enough to carry at this time of night. “Why are you awake?”

 

*

 

Greg's heart swells.

"Hey..."  _ I could hold you like this all day. Just quiet, just the two of us. Like the world is just this room.  _ "I fell asleep on you last night... m'sorry..."

His lover's neck smells soft - male, warm and sleepy. Stroking his nose slowly from the crook of Mycroft's shoulder to his ear sends a little shiver coursing down Greg's back, his pulse picking up with the sheer joy of being allowed to do this. 

_ You're mine. I'm the only one gets to look after you like this, hold you like this.  _

_ Christ, how could I ever worry I'm not important to you? All because of my stupid brother. _

"Are you tired, darlin'? D'you want me to let you sleep?" His arms tighten gently. "Just feeling soft about you. S'all."

 

*

 

“I didn’t mind, love. You needed it.”

Mycroft brings Greg’s hand up to his lips and kisses it, feeling quite, dare he say,  _ cuddly _ . “I don’t mind now, either.”

_ What a lovely way to wake up. _

No alarm can possibly compare.

He turns in Greg’s arms, burying his face in Greg’s shoulder and winding their legs together, draping his arm over Greg’s hip. It’s incredible how quickly they were able to mold themselves to each other, like they always fit correctly. As though they were always meant to.

_ My love. My Gregory. _

“I love you, beautiful. Feel as soft as you would like.” 

 

*

 

As Mycroft turns in his arms, Greg loosens his hold to let him get comfortable. He cuddles Mycroft close again at once, nestling, their limbs settling together. He presses a kiss to Mycroft's hair; his eyes close.

"Nothing in the world matters as much as you," he murmurs. "You know that? Nothing at all."

He gathers the covers around Mycroft's shoulders gently, tucking him away safe. He wraps an arm around him, kisses his temple, and whispers softly against his skin.

"I love you so much. M'sorry my brother was such a cunt to you, sweetheart. Had no right to treat you like that. I - need to grow a pair, frankly. Told him you'd driven for hours when you'd already had a mental day, and all he had to do was stay for a drink. I'm sorry."

He nuzzles against Mycroft's forehead, fingers carding through the back of his hair.

"Told him you weren't there for his fucking approval. Wasn't an interview. Beautiful, I'm -  _ so _ sorry. Someday I'll learn to kick off when it matters. I promise."

 

*

 

Mycroft shakes his head against Greg’s shoulder, nuzzling along the skin with his nose. “Family is- difficult, Gregory. It’s easier to… see how you might wish to behave when you aren’t with them.”

He should know, after all. Lord knows he has evaluated how he might do better with Sherlock a thousand times.

It never matters in the moment. Saying anything else would be utter hypocrisy.

“Honestly, Gregory, I don’t really care how Andy behaves toward me. I care that he is a- cunt- to  _ you _ .” The profanity feels unnatural in his mouth. It isn’t one he uses often, but he has a feeling, from everything Greg has said, that it does apply in this case.

He nestles in closer. This would be a decent time to discuss Sherlock, wouldn’t it? Nicely restful together, comparing the messes their brothers make.

_ Yes, do discuss your drug-addled brother with a sworn officer of the law. Excellent idea, Mycroft, particularly when it was him who you were running all over London for and you let Gregory think it was work. _

_ Liar. _

His smile falters for a moment, safely buried in Greg’s collarbone. “I did like the glimpse I had of Lizzie,” is what actually exits his mouth.  Mycroft tries not to let his mind put too much of a damper on his voice. “She seems quite decent.”

 

*

 

Greg brushes Mycroft's hair back slowly, listening to him in gentle quiet. He doesn't know what's made him feel so protective today. Maybe they're right - sleep, the universal answer to nearly all problems. 'Everything looks better in the morning'. 

"Don't think Andy realises he's lucky," he murmurs. "He... I don't know. Expects the world to move around him. And for some reason we all agree."

Sometimes Greg wonders if it's because they all know he wouldn't cope alone. Andy is one of those men who would sink deep, deep into his own self-righteous loneliness and pride, and kill himself with alcohol in a matter of years. He's one of those men who can't cope without a mother or a wife to facilitate his life for him, tell him he's excellent and doesn't need to rethink his choices for a second. He can't cope being made aware of that, either.

Realising he's holding onto thoughts, Greg closes his eyes and lets them go with a breath. Andy wasted enough of Mycroft's time last night. He's not having any more of it this morning.

Greg shifts down the bed gently, nestling his way into Mycroft's cocoon. He cups his face, brown eyes soft and protective, and for a moment just gazes at Mycroft - marvelling quietly at the face of the man he loves.

He leans close, pressing their lips together.

It's a soft, gentle,  _ good morning  _ kiss.

As their lips part, Greg keeps their foreheads together. He lets his eyes stay closed.

"I love you more right now than I ever did," he whispers. "Feels like it won't fit in me. This feeling. I could stay like this all my life - just here with you."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s heart swells to the point of bursting.  _ “All my life.” _

_ All.  _

He knows Gregory may mean it facetiously, may mean it in a way that is loving but not truly a proposal of forever. Mycroft, however, feels like a gate has been opened within him. He leans back in for another kiss, steadying his emotions by grounding them in his lover before they spill over, and when he pulls back the only sign is the glint in his eyes caught in the moonlight.

“I love you too.” He swallows down the threat of his voice breaking. 

“I know it’s- still early, as far as I understand these things, but… you could- if you would like- stay here. With me. Officially. Not as a guest, but-” 

He’s doing this wrong, isn’t he? It’s supposed to be a dramatic  _ move in with me _ and sighs and handing over the key, not stammering awkwardly in the dark. But...

Gregory already has the key to house and heart alike. 

There’s really no need to put it off further.

“There’s another mountain of paperwork, of course, but- I have the room. You’d be safe here. And… I rather like waking up with you.”

 

*

 

_ Holy fuck.  _ The glint of Mycroft's eyes kicks Greg's pulse through the roof. He listens in concern, gazing into his lover's face, his heart beating so hard it takes him far too long to realise what he's being asked. 

When he does, it hits him like a river breaking through a dam. It washes every thought out of his head. 

His mouth opens.

_ Wait - wait, no - he might not mean -  _

_ He means it.  _

_ He means it, for god's sake. He doesn't say things he doesn't mean. Fuck. He means it. _

Greg's throat grips. Enough of his senses return for him to speak.

"Mycroft..." he breathes. It's the only word in his head - there's nothing else for a moment, just Mycroft, his lover's eyes looking at him like that. His heart tightens; more words blow through him. "Darlin', I... I'd  _ love to. _ It's not early. H-Holy shit, sweetheart - nearly in our fifties - let the twenty-year-olds mess around playing hard to get.  _ I love you. _ You bring out  _ everything  _ that's good in me. You make me happy. It's not early."

His fingers shake as they cup Mycroft's jaw, holding him, gazing into his eyes. His heart breaks in his voice.

"Beautiful, if you want me with you everyday and every night - if you want to have our home together - you know there's  _ nothing _ in this world would make me happier?"

 

*

 

Heart in his throat when Greg is too shocked to respond, the relief Mycroft feels when he finally does floods him. He lays his own hand over Greg’s, almost dizzy with joy.

“I would like that. Love that. I am… immeasurably happy with you. I would like to make you happy as well. Every day.”

_ Home. Together.  _ Mycroft never would have allotted for it before. He had no plans for this sort of delirious pleasure to enter his life- never thought he would have time, or space, or the inclination to permit anyone to get so close.

He’s so very, very happy he was wrong.

“I cannot promise work will give me back to you any more often… but I will enjoy knowing you’re here. So will Marmalade.” His fingers curl, lacing with Greg’s. “I want our home to be together.”

He tilts forward, pressing a soft kiss to Gregory’s cheek, feeling the urge to be a bit silly in his happiness.  _ My love’s influence, I suspect.  _

“But do speak for yourself about being close to fifty,” he quips into Greg’s ear.

 

*

 

Greg's grin breaks from ear-to-ear.

"You're keeping me young," he growls, playful and soft, as he nuzzles into Mycroft's beautiful neck. He lets his stubble stroke the skin, teeth grazing in a gentle promise of a bite, his heart now leaping with happiness behind his ribs. He can't believe it.  _ Home. Here. You and me, for good.  _ "Give it four years, toyboy. You'll catch me up."

He wraps his arms around Mycroft tight, closing him in a bear hug he never ever wants to break. Joy heaves his chest to twice its size.

"Fuck, I love you. I love you  _ so much. _ Will you tell me as soon as the paperwork's done? I don't want to wait."

 

*

 

Mycroft actually  _ laughs,  _ a chuckle that sounds just as surprised as he is for having made the sound in the first place.

_ “Toyboy.” Honestly. _

“Yes. Of course I will.” Mycroft cards his hand through Greg’s hair, wrapping his lover as he is embraced in turn, as close as they can possibly be without one of them inside the other.

He’ll make room. Whatever Greg would like to move in with is fine- Mycroft is hardly attached to any of his own furniture, save the piano and perhaps his couch. Drawers can be shifted. Closet space allotted- though that process had already started, and there’s been at least one suit of Greg’s hanging in there for the past month.

He even has an idea of a welcome gift to offer Gregory.

“You can start bringing over clothing, at any rate. Our security office won’t mind that.” He rubs his cheek against Greg’s stubble, brushes his lips over his neck. “I love you. More than anything.”

 

*

 

"Yeah? I've not got a huge amount to bring, to be honest... I mean, you've seen my flat. Probably get everything worth keeping in my car."

Greg lifts his chin to the brush of lips against his neck, smiling as he rubs at Mycroft's back. This has been the best reason to wake up early he could ever have imagined. Part of his brain is already sorting through the contents of his flat, throwing away what he won't need and boxing up what he will. He can even move his clothing over today, if he wants.

The only other things which  _ really  _ matter are a few cooking tools - and Marmalade's toys.

Greg's heart gives a happy bump as he realises she'll be happy, too. No more shuttling back and forth in her cat box. She can just be here - and so can he.

_ God.  _

_ With you. _

As he nuzzles into Mycroft's hair, it's impossible not to grin.

"Can I make breakfast for you, love? Run you a bath, maybe? I want to make you happy."

 

*

 

“You always make me happy, beautiful.”

Mycroft does not want to move. It’s too comfortable, too unifying, lying here wrapped about each other. Moving would mean it must end. 

Yet… he can catch sight of the clock from here. If they wait much longer it will be the alarm going off, rousting him from bed without a hint of sympathy for making him go to work.

_ I wonder what they would do if I called in. _

He wishes it was even a true option.

“Unless I can tempt you into the bath with me, breakfast will do fine.” He draws back just enough to reach Gregory’s lips with his own, slow and loving in the contact, and his eyes open and honest when they part. “You must promise me that you will not allow me abuse your culinary skills simply because we both know your meals are superior.”

His hand strokes through Greg’s luscious hair.

“Throw a dishrag at me if I become too complacent.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart strains gently against his ribs. 

"M'never gonna do that," he murmurs. His eyes stray to Mycroft's lips. "I work shorter hours than you. I enjoy cooking to unwind. And I like seeing you have time to relax in the evening - means more time for us. Time to spend with my partner."

The stroke of Mycroft's fingers through his hair draws a gentle shiver up his spine. His pupils swell, eyes flickering with enjoyment.  _ Doesn't take much these days,  _ he thinks - then,  _ as if it ever has.  _ Mycroft's fond, quiet touches are so often his favourites. He doesn't remember anyone touching his hair much before Mycroft. It just grew from his head, largely ignored.

"Will you be in the office all day?" he asks, softly - trying his hardest to let no weight rest on the words, no expectation of anything. He knows the concept of 'Saturday' means little to Mycroft's organisation most weeks. "If I shift my clothes over while you're out... fetch Marmalade's things from my flat, then stay here with her... s'that alright?"

His eyes brighten, hopeful.

"I'll join you in the bath," he offers, his voice playful, sweetening the deal. "Send you off in a good mood..."

 

*

 

“Of course, love. I am hoping to slip out in the afternoon, so if I am very lucky I shall be able to come assist Marmalade in distributing her toys properly.”

That Mycroft is going in on Saturday at all when he might otherwise stay with Gregory is merely part of his negotiations with Edwin and Smallwood for his continued discretionary access to certain benefits of his position that may not be entirely… orthodox, at least as far as he uses them.

Sunday, however, is not a day he is willing to part with. That time is reserved for Gregory and Marmalade. Barring a true emergency, he will not give it up.

“The conference delegates begin arriving on Thursday. I believe we are well prepared but of course others keep changing the itinerary and adjustments must be made….”

His eyes flick from Greg’s eyes to his mouth and back, darkening as he lifts a brow.

“Exactly how good of a mood are you considering?”

 

*

 

Greg's mouth curves. He holds his lover's gaze, and with shameless purpose presses his teeth into his own lower lip. He pulls it through them, slow; his pupils swell.

The look is almost devilish in its intensity.

"The best mood I can," he says, softly - and beneath the sheets, lets his palms slide down Mycroft's back.  They take their time about it. "Ten feet tall kinda mood... remembering who's waiting at home for you, aching a little for you..."

At Mycroft's waist his hands curve around, sweeping lazily over his hipbones, thumbs coaxing along the soft-V of skin leading to his cock.

"Mmhm?"

 

*

 

Mycroft’s breath catches, his fingers curling into Greg’s hair and tightening in response.  _ Oh, you torturer.  _ His eyes darken instantly- Gregory knows too well what effect biting his lip at Mycroft has.

“Hellion,” he growls softly.

His other hand cups Greg’s chin, thumb tracing that damnable, sensual lip. He can already feel himself filling out and Gregory has hardly touched him yet. Unfettered access to sex must be added to the benefits of cohabiting as well.

Assuming neither of them had a heart event from overexertion first.

“I suppose since only one of us must work today, it’s not too unfair if you’re aching a little….” 

He leans forward and pulls Gregory to him, nipping at the soft dip of flesh beneath his jaw.

 

*

 

Greg's eyes fog with immediate pleasure as Mycroft's fingers tighten in his hair. He leans into the hand at his chin, plient and dark-eyed, his gaze still just a little wilful. As Mycroft nips him, he palpably shivers and inhales on a small groan, tracing his thumbs in coaxing circles just at the edge of Mycroft's pubic hair.

"I could ache a lot," he breathes, "f'you want me to..."

He stirs closer, letting their cocks nuzzle together as they thicken. His chin lifts for more.  _ Fuck, I need you... just feeling you getting hard for me, knowing you want me. I need you. _

_ Fucking hell... I love you... _

"What would you like to be remembering at work all morning, love?" 

 

*

 

“You. Riding me.” 

Mycroft draws a line with his fingers down Greg’s throat and onto his chest, where he can settle his palm flat and feel the beating of his lover’s heart. His hips shift, seeking that elusive touch before he musters enough of his control to still them.

“I want you to come on my cock… come all over me, then get in the bath with me and clean me off….”

He lets the grip of his hand in Greg’s hair grow tighter, more possessive. 

_ Mine. Mine, in our home. _

“And I want to spend the day marvelling that I am lucky enough that when I come home I get to do it again.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart thuds faster under Mycroft's hand. He manages to keep control of himself as Mycroft's grip tightens in his hair, digging his teeth into his lip to hold in a groan. Something about precise orders is so exhilarating it's hard to focus for a second.  _ And then again, when you're home...  _

_ Fuck. Home. _

Inhaling, Greg eases the fingers of his right hand through Mycroft's hair. He strokes his way to his lover's cock, curls his hand around it and draws gently from root to tip - just feeling, shivering.  _ For me. The thought of me, right now. _

As he begins a loose slow stroke, he whispers,

"D'you know what it does to me? Hearing you talk like that?"

He stirs, turning Mycroft gently onto his back. His slow stroking never wavers as he rearranges the pillow behind Mycroft's head for him to be comfortable, for his lover to relax. He brushes back the sheets, wanting to see each other; he shifts to sit astride Mycroft's thighs. 

"Need you, love..." His grasp gently tightens - working Mycroft's cock with purpose, hardening him. His gaze doesn't leave Mycroft's face. "Need you in me. I want to belong to you."

 

*

 

Mycroft resists the urge to shudder, save for his traitorous cock that belies his eagerness, his eyes fixed on the dark, eager gaze above him. “Mmm, yes, Gregory….”

He runs his hands up from Greg’s knees, the touch light and gentle, then drags his nails on the way back down. His lover’s responsiveness is always a heady thing, reinforcing his natural tendencies to be a little… assertive. 

“So good of you to get me ready for you.” His cock twitches, hard and yearning. “Ready to fill you. Claim you.”

His tongue flicks out, wetting his lip. This view is always far too pleasing, and it’s better still when Gregory is sliding down, enveloping him.  _ Oh, that beautiful face he makes…. _

The roving hands wander back up, kneading the meat of Greg’s arse.

“Go ahead, beautiful. Show me who you belong to.”

 

*

 

_ God.  _ Greg’s teeth ply into his lip once again, leaning forward a little as Mycroft kneads him, reaching for the tube of lubricant on the bedside.  _ ‘Show me who you belong to’.  _

The thick gel is cooling and familiar between his fingers. Greg takes some time just to slick Mycroft’s cock with it, sliding his hands one over the other in rhythm. His own erection aches for similar treatment - but there’s something he needs before he can dwell too much on his own cock. 

After months together, and most opportunities to make love gladly taken, it’s rare he wants or needs fingers anymore. Mycroft’s cock gives him everything they can. Relaxing is all in his breath, in the stroke of Mycroft’s hands over his thighs and his lower body, in the heady intimacy of unbroken eye contact as he positions Mycroft’s cock between his thighs and guides it into his body. He sinks slowly, shuddering, breath purposeful and deep through small bites of discomfort. His face tightens with the last couple of inches; he moans it out, sighing, his head dropping back and eyes closing over. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. He leans back to brace his hands on Mycroft’s thighs, the muscles in his abdomen gently clenching. “Mhmm - fuck...”

 

*

 

Mycroft lets Gregory lead this part, simply stroking up and down those lovely thighs gently, grounding his own breath in the touch so he does not give in to his baser urges and thrust up, not until Gregory is ready. A low gasp escapes him when Greg’s muscles clench, tightening around him.

“My love….”

It’s easy to be stealthy when Greg is settling, slipping his hand to the lube. He won’t immediately set to wrapping Greg in his fist, not until he’s settled, but it’s helpful to be prepared before his own mind is too overwhelmed to cogitate. 

“You look so beautiful like this, Gregory….” Mycroft trails the tip of one lubricated finger up the underside of Greg’s shaft, sharing the slick heat of it, warmed by his skin.

“And you’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you? Fucking yourself on me until you come.”

His thumb circles the thick head of Greg’s cock, then strokes the slit idly, a smug smirk on his lips.

“Make a mess on me, won’t you, lovely?”

 

*

 

Greg's cock twitches at the light stroke; his face tenses with concentration. Mycroft's low murmur seems to drag along with the touch, rippling just beneath Greg's skin.  _ Fucking myself on you. Being good for you. _

_ Make a mess on you -  _

_ Oh, fuck -  _

Breathing, bearing down, he pads at Mycroft's thighs and enjoys the little strokes of his cock until his tremors have subsided. The burn blurs into the stretch he loves; he groans softly, testing it, slow and small circles to stir Mycroft inside him and slicken him.

His eyes flutter open again, hazy.

He smiles down. A flush has settled high in his cheeks, his eyes dark and shining.

"Holy shit," he whispers, and with a flexing of his fingers he begins to rock - slow and tentative up and down, shivering as the sensation changes. "H-Holy shit - Myc - "

He stretches, head tipping back, offering to Mycroft's gaze the long line of his body from throat to cock, rising and falling slowly.

"F-Fuck, I love you - "

 

*

 

Gregory could be a Renaissance painting, looking like that- a model for works of the Roman gods, all taut muscle stretched like cords, the details of his frame highlighted in the way dawn light catches on the slight glisten of sweat.

_ I really must ask him if he minds a photo or two. _

In the meantime, Mycroft saves every detail for himself, banking it in the large vault of his mind.

“That’s it, lovely.” He extends his own long fingers, offering a slick surface for the length of Greg’s cock to slide against with every slow rock. Mycroft watches him with dark, intensely studious eyes, cataloguing every quiet noise and each luscious, tight shift over his own member.

“I love you too, beautiful. Do you feel it, how hard you make me when you love me so well?”

Mycroft smiles, languid against the pillows.

“Tell me how it feels, love.”

 

*

 

Greg groans with a shiver as the push of his hips slides his cock against Mycroft's fingers. Each slick stroke of pleasure isn't quite enough, but it's good like that - simmering, safe, and he can concentrate on the steady rocking of his pelvis. He doesn't want to slam through this. 

They've got time. 

It's Saturday - and if Mycroft's people want him, they can wait in line behind the man who loves him.

"I feel it," Greg breathes, biting down, taking Mycroft a little deeper and gripping with purpose on the withdrawal, squeezing around Mycroft's cock. He watches Mycroft's face as he does, the flush of his cheeks darkening. "You're perfect. Thick. H-Hard. I like you watching me - watching me work for you - f-fuck myself on you - "

The slick, slow filling is becoming addictively good; the longing to speed twists through Greg's abdomen, his expression tightening. He fights it, swallowing the urge down.  _ Just slow,  _ he thinks, as he exhales. _ Just like this. Draw it out. _

"S-Shit - Myc, I - I like you in me - I like you inside me... oh fuck, you're so  _ deep _ \- ohh - fuck - "

 

*

 

Mycroft’s eyes flutter. The tightening squeeze around his cock is a delight that makes him restless, his body clamoring for more. But he can be  _ good _ too, and he restrains the urge to buck up faster into a slight canting of his hips and arching of his back.

A flush is crossing his skin as well, rising from his core in a faint pink easily evident on his pale skin. He drops one hand to the sheets to expend his excess energy tousling the sheets.

“God, Gregory… I’d watch you all day, let you ride me for hours….”

His hand curls, loosely encircling Greg’s cock and letting him fuck through it, not pressing the matter with his own strokes. 

“I love how you look like this, darling, how you  _ feel _ \- made for me, aren’t you? A perfect fit….”

 

*

 

"M-Made for you - " 

The words fall from Greg's mouth, echoed by his heart without the need for thought.  _ Made for Mycroft.  _ Like they're meant to be together like this - and he knows Mycroft means sex, and the physical feeling, how easy this slow motion has become as they rock together - but right now, this morning, it feels like so much more. This is more than sex for pleasure. This is about sharing something more healing than a playful fuck.

_ This is my home.  _

_ You're my partner, and my body's made for you. _

He gazes down into Mycroft's eyes, panting slowly.  _ Letting me take from you, get what I need from you - find myself on you.  _ It's so rhythmic and smooth it's starting to blur Greg's higher functions, lost in the feeling of fucking himself forward through Mycroft's hand, then gasping as Mycroft's cock grinds against his prostate. No matter how familiar this feeling becomes, it'll always be intense. He can feel a deep tight tremble beginning in his thigh muscles and his arms; the steady rhythm is too good to change.

"Made for you," he moans again, staring down at Mycroft in restless, overwhelming love. Pleasure floods his face. "Mnh. Yours." His eyes fill with a soft, aching need. He doesn't mean it to be a question, nor for it to leave him a whimper, but it does. "Your good boy?"

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck. _

It almost breaks Mycroft, seeing Greg like this, so open and trusting and utterly  _ gorgeous _ , exposed in every possible way, his whimpered query feeling like a peek into his soul.

And all Mycroft wants to do is love him. Care for him and hold him and ensure he knows he is perfect, in every way.

Always.

“Yes, love- god, yes- my good boy, Gregory….”

One hand closes around Greg’s cock, tightening the circle of pleasure he can offer there. He presses the other behind himself, leveraging his way up until he’s closer to sitting, with Gregory in his lap, and he can plant a string of loving kisses along his chest.

“Mine. My Gregory. Perfect for me, you are, just perfect….”

 

*

 

As Mycroft eases to sit up, Greg slows his movements. He shivers, shifting to lean forwards a little more, his eyes flashing softly at the trail of tender kisses. His hands run gently along Mycroft's arms. He doesn't care if he loses the stroking of his cock between them; he wants to be close. 

"Yours," he whispers, his voice breaking with his breath. "Yours. All yours." Slowly he starts to move again, finding a way this works - his movements are shallower, a little less smooth, but there's a restless urgency comes with being in Mycroft's lap; it more than makes up for the loss of depth. Moaning shakily, chasing the feeling with his hips, Greg stirs and takes Mycroft's jaw nervously into his hands, lifting his lover's mouth to his own, bending down to kiss. 

_ Fuck, fuck... in your lap - god, your Greg - your good boy -  _

_ And when you come home, yours again - ride you again - relax you after your day... _

_ Holy shit... _

"Myc," he pants between their mouths, driving his pelvis down, almost whining with the feeling now. "M-Myc - Myc, I - f-fuck - please - "

He doesn't even know what he's asking for. Just more - more of this, more close, more fucking, more kissing, more contact,  _ more. _

 

*

 

“Yes-”

Mycroft takes his lover’s mouth greedily, hungrily, seeking the same indeterminate  _ more. _ Bracing on one hand he rocks his hips in time with Gregory’s movements, the muscles of his core straining, while with the other he starts to pump Greg’s cock in long, firm strokes.

“Hold onto me, love,” Mycroft gasps when he has to pause for breath. “Take my shoulders- use me, beautiful-”

_ Ride me, take me- _

_ Need me, love- _

His hand tightens around Gregory’s thickness, pulling with greater need. He can already feel the low throb of pressure building, driven on by the steady rhythm.

“Nnnnf- love, you feel-  _ fuck-  _ amazing-”

 

*

 

_ 'Use me, beautiful.' _

Greg's hands wrap around Mycroft's shoulders, gripping tight. It's getting harder to hold onto thoughts of slow and lazy - the need to fuck, to chase and come, burns through his lower body, and it's so easy to surrender. Mycroft's mouth feels hot and soft and greedy for him; the motion of their bodies is hypnotic, the pleasure easy and deep. 

_ This happens every time,  _ he registers in the back of his mind. It throws up a giddy flutter in his chest.  _ Every single time, swearing we'll fuck for hours this time. Then I just fucking need you.  _ Mycroft knows just the rhythm around his cock he needs to come. The things he says melt Greg's thoughts into nothing.

_ Christ, I want to fuck you when I'm eighty. _

Panting, using Mycroft's shoulders as leverage, he begins to drive after the hard and almost rough he wants so badly.  _ I want to feel you. I want to feel you all fucking day. I want you thinking of me like this.  _ He won't be able to keep this pace for long but the sensation of Mycroft's cock slamming into his prostate rips through him, contorting his expression, breaking him apart. He doesn't realise he's crying out. The pleasure heaves at his limits, stretching him, pouring out of him as sound he can feel in his throat but not hear. 

 

*

 

The sounds Greg makes wash through Mycroft like an ocean tide, pulling him down further into his own pleasure. “Yes- god, yes, love- that’s it-” It’s how they work- either of them getting close, tipping over the edge, is usually enough to drive the other over as well. 

_ Practically Pavlovian at this point. _

His muscles tighten in his core but his face opens, his eyes still drinking in Gregory, full of love and devotion and  _ want. _ “So close, aren’t you, beautiful- that’s it, darling- take it-”

Mycroft tilts his lips forward, catching the rolling path of Greg’s nipple on his tongue.  _ I wish I had more hands. _ He’d wrap Greg up, feeling him, touching him  _ everywhere _ , enveloping him completely in every kind of pleasure he can offer.

“You want to come, don’t you, love- show me how good you are, love, show me how much you want it- come for me, love-”

 

*

 

_ 'That's it, darling. Take it.' _

This pleasure is an onslaught, and Greg takes it - all of it - Mycroft's cock, his stroking hand, the soft flash of his tongue - it feels like being barraged with enough pleasure to come three times over, searing and singing and shaking its way through him, over and over. 

He wants to whimper in response to Mycroft. He wants to be good, wants to plead with Mycroft for his climax, wants to promise, but words are now beyond his reach. There's only the heady driving pulse of pleasure.

His fingers dig into Mycroft's shoulders; his back arches beneath the need for  _ close, now, you.  _ His jaw drops so he can pant, hard and heavy. After only a few seconds, his expression cracks. It looks like intense pain, twisting. The urgent spurt of his cock between them is accompanied by a full body jerk, a cry which aches from his throat and a hard contraction of his inner muscles. His hips buck, shallow and quick, fucking himself through the piercing sharpness of the peak to the relief promised on the other side, panting with almost panicked intensity.

"Myc," he sobs, his nails pressing half-moon indents. "Myc, Myc -  _ Mycmycmyc - ohfuckMyc..." _

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a throaty gasp as Gregory spills over him, marking his chest and stomach in heat. He has to get closer- he wraps the arm that had been holding him up around Greg’s waist, coaxing his lover through the pulsing ripples of orgasm he can feel reflected around his own cock and driving his pleasure.

His head falls to Greg’s chest, mouth open so his lips can taste the still shifting flesh as Greg rocks his way through it. Greg is on his tongue, his skin, his cock, his cry is music in Mycroft’s ears. 

“God- Gregory-”

He’s taken by the force of his own bursting pleasure before Greg’s is sated. It makes him growl, a feral, primal sound emitted from the depths of his lungs. 

“Fuck- love-”

Warmth and wet erupts around his cock, still buried deep, and he hangs onto Gregory with a hand pressed hard against his hip, softly groaning with each aftershock.

 

*

 

There's something animal and satisfying about feeling Mycroft come inside him. Greg pants with the sensation, his senses still reeling, and finds his fingers carding through Mycroft's hair.

"Fuck..." he whispers, shivering. He kisses Mycroft's forehead, tender and desperate tiny kisses, scrunching his hair gently to soothe him. "Fuck, love... c-come in me... that's it..." 

_ God, how is this getting only better? _

_ And how did I live so long without it? _

Even afterwards, getting clean in the shower together, Greg hasn't quite settled back down to earth. He doesn't think he'll be landing all day. He feels like they're still making love somehow, still joined, and it's nothing that a few hours apart will change. 

_ Never apart from each other for long now. Home at the end of everyday... god, I hope they approve the paperwork quick... _

_ Can't wait to send Andy a change of address card. _

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft arrives at work in such an alarmingly good mood that the exterior security officers of his bunker-like office immediately start a betting pool on which problematic country just had its power structure very thoroughly destabilized. Anthea has arrived before him, unsurprisingly, and laid all the new reports for the conference out on his desk. Having expected nothing less, Mycroft rewards her with one of her favorite limoncello pastries, specially purchased on the way in.

She stares at it, one brow slowly arching as Mycroft settles in and begins rifling through the first new stack of paperwork.

“It’s not poisoned,” Mycroft says eventually.

“Well I can’t recall any recent poisoning-worthy offenses, so it had better not be.” She lifts it and sniffs. “You didn’t… kill someone on the way in, did you? Is this a preemptive pay off?”

“Not as such, but I am going to request a… not insignificant batch of paperwork from you.”

Anthea’s eyes narrow, studious and sharp. “... alright. What am I being bribed for?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I would like you to prepare the Domiciled Partnership packet for me.”

She takes a very long time to chew and swallow her first bite while she processes that. “You asked him to move in.”

“Mmm.”

“Greg. To move in with you.”

“Indeed.”

She lowers the pastry. “Sir, I’m very pleased for you.”

Something about her tone rings… odd. He looks up, surveying her face. “But?”

“Well. I had rather hoped you would tell me before you asked him…. There’s something I have to show you.” She sighs and retreats to her own desk to retrieve a folder, closing the door on her way back in. “I don’t know if he’s mentioned- you know I don’t listen to the house audio feed-”

“For which we are all grateful, I am sure.”

“-but I have the feeling it hasn’t come up, and it  _ will _ when you file. You need to be prepared to get some… pushback, on this.”

The folder is Gregory’s security report, the one he had trusted Anthea to manage for him when he first started seeing his beautiful detective. She opens it to a section with a medical report, witness statements dated almost a decade ago, and the photocopied minutes of a successive disciplinary hearing.

A swift scan reveals the hearing was held to discuss a complaint from a member of the public - an accusation of violent behaviour from a police officer.

From Gregory.

“Sorry?” He can’t help but picture Karen’s email, warning of violent tendencies. “Who did…”

“His wife’s first lover.” 

Well, that hardly seems- Gregory is a sweetheart, a kind man. He’d tolerated Karen’s ridiculous behavior for years. 

She had to be behind it, somehow. Had driven him to it.

Didn’t she?

He lifts the medical report. 

It’s… telling. Graphic. He frowns, putting it down and plucking out the Met’s incident report.

The witness statements agree on an unfortunate number of key details. At around 10.30pm, a man since identified as DS Gregory Lestrade entered a pub on Bermondsey Street, approached a table of drinkers near the window and without speaking threw a punch at one of the men present. The man responded in kind; a brawl erupted in seconds. Other patrons were witnessed egging on the two furious men, heckling and shouting in encouragement. DS Lestrade's opponent, disadvantaged by several hours of drinking, had come off very much the worst in the encounter - a broken jaw is only the first in a litany of injuries.

The disciplinary hearing had concluded the incident was highly out of character for Lestrade, an officer whose record was otherwise faultless. He told the hearing he'd been deeply affected by the discovery of his wife's infidelity, the marriage only into its second year; her lover was a former school friend of his. The two men had once been close. 

By DS Lestrade's own admission, he'd 'seen red'. 

The composure required of an officer of the law, even an off-duty one, had deserted him. He was now undergoing counselling, and the marriage was likely to be dissolved.

On the strength of testimony from Gregory's inspector - a DI Lawrence Roscoe, who had gone so far as to vow resignation if his sergeant were struck from the force - the hearing opted not to discharge Greg. They added the incident to his record indefinitely, ordered a series of performance reports to be conducted at monthly intervals by DI Roscoe, and issued a stiff warning that any future lapse in judgement would result in immediate dismissal.

“I’m sorry, sir. But they will bring it up. I’ll prepare the packet, regardless, just-”

“Thank you, Anthea. That will be all for now.”

She knows the obvious dismissal well enough to retreat back to her desk and leave him to his perusal of the information he wishes he didn’t have. 

Gregory had nearly killed someone for touching his wife.

He rubs his fingers along the bridge of his nose. 

_ Yes, this is going to make things very difficult indeed. _

 

*

 

Greg doesn't have as many clothes as he thought - and half of them, he's not even sure he wants to wear again. Some are too small, some are old and faded, and some simply never suited him. After sorting in his flat for an hour, he's filled two bin-liners for the charity shop and come to the decision he needs new clothes.

And with a Saturday to fill, there's no time like the present.

He takes the bin-liners to the RSPCA shop down the road, drives the clothes he's keeping over to Mycroft's house, tops up Marmalade's kibble bowl and kisses her between the eyes, then heads out with a smile to Oxford Street. 

The day is bright and breezy; even the tube journey is pleasant for once. He takes himself in and out of the shops for several hours, stopping for coffee when he starts to tire, and soon has several bags to carry with him - new jeans, new shirts, new underwear. 

He's hardly stopped thinking about Mycroft all day. Slight movements remind him of making love this morning, a fullness he can still feel. Everytime he tries something on, he finds himself appraising his reflection with Mycroft's imagined gaze, not his own. He's no longer judging the slight softness of his tummy, nor the increasing silver in his hair. He lets himself buy jeans he'd have considered far too cool for him last year. He tries on shirts which cut a little closer to his chest, and he likes them. 

_ Something new starting.  _

_ Something better. _

_ I can feel it.  _

This is the first day he lives with Mycroft Holmes. The paperwork will take time, he knows - but it's a formality. That's all. He can't put out of his mind that yesterday might've been the last day he lived alone. His home is no longer the cramped flat where he can keep an eye on a boiling pan of pasta from bed. His home is now with Mycroft - he wants to feel like Mycroft's partner, and dress like his partner too. 

He'll be going for a proper suit fitting soon. The trade conference; Mycroft's circle. He knows he's in for a lot of subtle sneers - but Greg doesn't care. Mycroft wants him there. That's what matters.

Realising it's two o' clock, and Mycroft might be on his way back from work soon, Greg heads back to the tube with all his bags in tow. His brain occupies itself on the journey with which new shirt and jeans to put on for Mycroft's return. There's a good chance they'll be ripped straight off him, but they might as well look good in the few seconds he gets to wear them.

Wrapped up in his happy imaginings, Greg's almost at Mycroft's door before he realises someone is standing on the step.

His focus sharpens at once, wary of sudden appearances of people. It's not Karen, nor any friends of hers he recognises - it's a man, tall and slender and pale, dark curls and an aquiline nose - but Greg recognises a  _ waiting _ stance when he sees one. He braces himself as he approaches.

"You alright there?" he says.

It's police talk. It means,  _ 'what are you doing?',  _ and it's asked with a guarded frown.

 

*

 

_ Police. Off-duty.  _ He sighs.  _ Boring. _

Sherlock is quite used to being stopped by police.  _ “Breaking and entering.” “Purchase of hazardous materials.” “You look like you’re on drugs, lad.” _

He whirls, prepared to tell this interloper the most scarring, sordid details of his surely sad life in order to get him to leave, and  _ looks.  _

_ Oh, surely not. _

Surely  _ Mycroft  _ has not finally succumbed to the lure of… companionship. 

Still, this presents an opportunity, especially since someone (likely that woman Mycroft employed) has upgraded the locks and his current set of tools is insufficient to crack it.

“If you’re delivering- yourself or otherwise,” he drolls, eyeing the bags the man is carrying, as he gauges the reaction from the corner of his gaze, “he seems to be out.”  _ Been to the shops. On brother mine’s dime? Insufficient data. Volume suggests enough to start a wardrobe. _

_ Oh, surely he’s not invited you to move in. _

Sensing the opportunity to obtain some data that will surely annoy Mycroft, if not provide sufficiently blackmail to cut off his brother’s constant pestering, Sherlock flashes the security access card he’d lifted the last time he had been over. “Oh you  _ live _ here, don’t you. Convenient. It seems my key no longer works.”

 

*

 

Greg's jaw sets a little at the suggestion he's a delivery man. He supposes he'd better get used to it; he's not the usual resident of a neighbourhood like this. Still, he doesn't really like the searching look he's getting.

And the sight of the security card takes him aback.

_ Who... the fuck... _

He's never seen this guy before. He didn't know Mycroft really had people come over apart from him - and he definitely didn't think they'd have an access card.

_ Staff...? Some kind of... checks the... gas meter now and then...? _

This guy isn't talking like staff, though. He's talking like Greg should've been expecting him.

"Are you sure you're in the right place?" Greg says, warily. "Yeah, I live here."  _ Sort of.  _ "Where're you looking for?"

 

*

 

Sherlock smiles, predatory and sharp. “Oh, I’m in the right place. It’s you I’m not as sure about.”

His eyes skin over the officer- detective? _Interesting._ _Out of your type, brother mine._

“You’re older than his usual lot, aren’t you. My, the sex must be  _ fantastic _ if he’s moving you in.”

He’s right, of course, he’s always right, and in this instance he’s willing to allow the analysis of his brother’s sex life without gagging, just long enough to learn something to hold over Mycroft later.

He can always delete the offending bits later.

“Been together, what, five months? Six?”

Sherlock leans against the door, blocking it without appearing to be doing so deliberately. 

“And not bored of you yet. How novel. He will be, eventually. You should enjoy those nice sheets and that big tub while you can.”

 

*

 

Reeling, Greg can only stare. 

His mouth opens, and in the ringing emptiness of his mind, he sees a flash of the next minute of his life: it starts with the furious demand  _ 'who the actual ever living fuck are you?',  _ and there's a good chance it ends with him hitting this guy's head against the door until the security alarms are triggered again.  _ Who the fuck are you? What are you talking about? What do you mean, 'his usual lot'? _

_ What do you mean, 'he will be'? _

Then in the back of his mind, something clicks.

Greg hears it like a guiding voice.  _ This isn't normal.  _ This is weird - but he now lives in a world where there's a damn good explanation for weird. Mycroft has enemies. The anger releases its grip on Greg's throat almost at once, as he realises he's looking at someone trained to do what his ex-wife did by nature. 

_ You're here to freak me out.  _

_ You know I'm his. You're - a spy - someone dodgy - you've been sent.  _

_ You tried to trick me into letting you in. Holy fuck. _

The incentive not to let Mycroft down burns through Greg's chest. This is Mycroft's world, and though he's not been warned how to deal with this, he's pretty sure  _ 'tell them absolutely nothing' _ and  _ 'call me at once' _ would be high in the list of instructions.

Holding the stranger's stare, Greg drops his bags on the pavement and reaches into his pocket for his phone. He draws it, hits quick dial to Mycroft, and steps to block the way. 

 

*

 

Sherlock’s breath puffs out. “Yes, do see if Mycroft can run home and allot his precious time from the government because his lover’s seen a strange man. How boring. Aren’t you police? And can’t handle a strange man at  _ your _ door, apparently.”

_ Violent instincts. Defensive caution. Emotionally abused.  _

Oh, that is interesting. Mycroft, taking on someone  _ broken? _

_ I thought caring was not an advantage, brother mine. _

He steps forward, closer than most people would allow for personal space. “You’re very loyal, very quickly, aren’t you? Or is the perks you like? The nice dinners- is he still favoring that French establishment? Of course he is, he doesn’t like change, he likes to get the desserts and take them home so he can look at them and tell himself he’s so very  _ good _ for not actually eating them.”

“You cook, though, don’t you.” He’s close enough to incorporate smell into his analysis, which really always yields the most interesting results. “He likes the idea of someone using his kitchen, but not benefiting himself, that would be  _ weak.  _ Oh, and he’s not smoking around you, either, is he? I doubt he’s actually quit, he never really quits, but he is very, very good at  _ hiding _ things.”

 

*

 

Greg listens in hard-eyed silence, not moving an inch as Sherlock comes toward him. When Sherlock sniffs him, his pupils shrink; he holds his ground. His gaze scan Sherlock's face, taking details, logging and remembering.

_ Pick up.  _

_ Pick up, pick up, pick up. _

_ Fuck. _

_ Fuck. Play for time. _

As he picks out things to remember about this guy, things he'll be giving to Mycroft as a witness statement, a pattern starts to emerge. 

His pulse spikes with the realisation.

"Weight loss," he says, eyeing Sherlock's clothes. "Quite a bit, recent-ish. Agitation and lowered inhibitions. Pupils are tiny - " He squints at Sherlock's mouth. "Burn mark on the lips." His eyes flash to Sherlock's collar. "Small nose-bleed since you got dressed, and you don't care enough about it to get yourself changed."

The conclusion is blunt.

"Cocaine. Heavy use."

Mycroft isn't picking up. 

"Whoever the fuck you are," Greg says, dropping the phone, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of possessing an illegal substance - "

He moves to grab hold of Sherlock's arms.

 

*

 

Sherlock parries, darting back faster than one might expect.  _ Sergeant. No. Inspector? Not drugs- homicide.  _ “Don’t be boring, Inspector. Cocaine leaves the system swiftly enough that I may test clean already, but more importantly your charges won’t hold, and it will be  _ Mycroft  _ wiping the record from your system as though it never existed.”

He bares his teeth. “Won’t that be… awkward.”

It would be inadvisable for him to engage in a physical conflict in his current state- the detective has his weight loss correct, though Sherlock is still quite confident in his ability to throw a punch.

“Is the cavalry unavailable? What a pity- only it’s not, really, is it, because you are  _ aching _ to lash out. You should tell him you hit me, you really should. I would  _ love  _ to see his reaction. Haven’t tossed your old lease out yet, have you? You may need it.”

 

*

 

Greg's brain staggers. 

_ Why would Mycroft - wipe the record from -  _

_ Doesn't matter.  _

Mycroft will sort this. Mycroft will know what the hell this is. This guy is too quick to catch, too wired to take on alone, and Greg's unsettled enough to start worrying he's in danger here. A foreign government wouldn't send someone vicious and coked-up to trick information out of him - would they? They'd plant someone in his office, befriend him slowly over months, get him to stab Mycroft in the back without noticing. 

_ This isn't normal.  _

_ Something's wrong. _

He wants to push past, get into the house - but his access code will be fully visible, and he's got a horrible feeling this guy will try to follow him in. 

_ Fuck.  _

_ Marmalade.  _

_ I can't leave. I can't just leave if you're going to break in and -  _

He backs off, bending for his phone on the ground. The screen has smashed.  _ Fuck.  _ Greg cuts the call to Mycroft without even seeing whether it's been answered, hits 999 and backs away further, pressing the phone to his ear, keeping the man in his sight.

_ Karen? _

Some new friend. 

_ But Mycroft - he's talking about Mycroft like - like he knows -  _

The call is answered.

"Police," Greg says, without waiting for the question. He gives Mycroft's address in his next breath, requesting a street team to get here fast. "My name's DI Lestrade. I'm Scotland Yard. Someone trying to gain entry to my house, he's coked up - "

 

*

 

“ _ Your  _ house?” Sherlock laughs. “Are you certain about that?” Hand in his pocket, he finishes typing out a message, hitting send blindly. His mind begins a silent countdown from twenty.

Whoever owns this phone- and he honestly cannot recall who he borrowed it from, it’s already deleted- is going to have a rough time once the line is traced.

So is his dear brother’s  _ paramour _ .

Backing up further, he’s pressed against the door when the first black car pulls up to the curb. One must be impressed by MI-5’s response time in this neighborhood. “That’s him!” he calls, pointing to the grey-haired copper. 

They’re already moving to intercept the detective and remove his phone from his hand. “Sir- lower the phone, please, we’ve had reports of several suspicious packages- are these your bags? Keep your hands up, please-“

Sherlock is over the bushes and halfway down the next block before anyone other than the detective realized he’s gone.

Oh, Mycroft is going to  _ hate  _ this. Fortunately Sherlock has an excellent heroin dealer for such an occasion. He’d need it to put it with whatever his brother would offer up in retaliation for interfering in his  _ relationship.  _

_Hah._ _As if Mycroft engages in those._

 

*

 

It's nearly an hour before the security team start considering the possibility Greg is telling the truth. 

His security access card doesn't seem to do much to convince them. As soon as they see it, he suspects they think he stole it. He makes a mistake early on of stumbling over whether he officially lives here, which leads to a security check he fails, his name not being registered to the address at all - which leads to a painful explanation that it's only sort of semi-official for now, and no, the paperwork isn't done - but this  _ is  _ his partner's house - and yes, he  _ is  _ allowed to be here - and don't any of them think it's suspicious the other guy has now bloody vanished? 

They're not listening.

Greg watches, miserably, as everything he's bought is turned out of his bags and examined by security professionals - every shirt, every pair of new boxer shorts. Even when no suspicious items are found, it seems  _ he's  _ still considered suspicious enough for the stuff to be confiscated for now. It'll be returned when it's all been properly checked, he's told - along with his phone.

It's hard to bite back sarcastic comments by that point, but Greg manages somehow. Finally, he's been detained outside Mycroft's house long enough for nearby curtains to be twitching. A few neighbours have openly come to their front doors to see what's going on. 

A phone call is finally made - the phone-call he's been begging them calmly to make all this time.

Within two minutes, it seems it's all sorted. His identity has been authenticated, they say. He's permitted to access the residence. They won't tell him who they spoke to, and if it was Mycroft - they won't give him his phone back - but Greg is by now so tired and so distressed that his shattered iPhone is the least of his worries.

He tells them to keep the thing as long as they want, and lets himself numbly into the house.

He barely even remembers to lock the door behind him. Upstairs, he moves silently to the kitchen and gets a large glass from a high cabinet, then a half-finished bottle of white wine from the fridge. 

As he fills the glass, his head echoing with things he doesn't want to think, a tentative _ 'brrrp?' _ sounds behind him.

Greg's heart squeezes. He turns to find her peering around the island counter at him, her small face confused, her green eyes round and shy.

"Hey, princess..." he murmurs.

Marmalade trills softly, padding over. She winds her way with care around his ankles. Bending, Greg picks her up. She's such a small and light cat he can lift and carry her easily with one arm, cradled against his chest as he takes her quietly to the lounge. Marmalade - happy, as ever, to be held - nuzzles into his jumper as they walk.

The wine glass is soon empty twice over, and Marmalade is asleep across Greg's chest. He's staring into space, trying to make some sense of the chaos.

He's not encountered that kind of... savagery from a stranger before. The guy seemed to hate him just for being here, for being attached to Mycroft - but by the end, he wasn't talking like Mycroft was an enemy. 

_ 'You should tell him you hit me, you really should. I would love to see his reaction.' _

What the fuck did that mean?

_ 'And it will be Mycroft wiping the record from your system as though it never existed.' _

Those bared teeth. The look of contempt. The suggestion Greg couldn't possibly understand how little he knew, how gullible he was, how... unwelcome here.

_ 'Won't that be… awkward.' _

As he pours himself a third glass of wine, feeling ten years older than he did this morning, Greg thinks he hears the front door unlock.

 

*

 

There’s a span of soft flesh under Mycroft’s eye that won’t stop twitching. It started as soon as Anthea told him that Greg had been stopped for a  _ bomb threat _ outside his house by an entire MI-5 team.

An MI-5 team which, of course, reported the matter not to him, but to Sir Edwin.

Sherlock appeared to be involved, though from what Anthea could access he was not well caught on the cameras- unsurprising, given that he knows where they all are.

_ I’m going to have him dropped off in rural Australia. There must be a rehab out there- something very far from cellular service. Surrounded by attack kangaroos. _

Edwin had called him in to ask him to explain. They  _ know  _ about Sherlock, but Edwin made the entire matter about Gregory, which was ridiculous, considering that Gregory was hardly at fault. He’d been forced to explain that yes, he had asked Gregory to move in, and yes, he is working on the application.

_ Ridiculous. _

He can already tell Edwin means to stand in front of the process. Apparently Gregory is a  _ hindrance to work ethic and productivity. _

It’s enough to make him want to scream.

Still. Mycroft fixes things, as he always has. He acquired Gregory’s bags, his phone- had the screen replaced- picked up carryout.

A good idea, seeing as Gregory is firmly ensconced under a sleeping Marmalade as he slips up the stairs. “Love?” He steps quietly around the couch, not wishing to wake the cat, and kneels beside Gregory’s head, brushing his fingers over his hair. “How are you, darling?”

 

*

 

Greg's gaze is a little hazy as it lifts to Mycroft, dulled with two glasses of wine and the terrible day. Long hours of worrying have left him weary - but he lifts his head into the gentle brushing through his hair, all the same.

It's a moment before he can speak.

"Not great." His eyes close. It's easier to do this with his eyes shut, even though it brings the bizarre stranger's face back into his memory, as real as if he were in the room. "I - I don't know what you heard, but... I - "

The words die in his throat.  _ Got home. _

" - g-got back from Oxford Street, and there was... there was just - this guy. Coked up. He - "

_ Fuck, how do I tell you? Where do I even start?  _

"Christ, m'sorry. I think he tried to get into the house. I think he tried to trick me. To do what, I don't know, but - he was saying stuff that - that I don't - "

 

*

 

“It’s alright, love. You did everything right.” 

Now would not be a good time to tell Gregory about Sherlock.  _ That was my brother, you absolutely have my permission to chin him, but it will irritate Mummy. _ No. It is better… as it usually is… not to mention Sherlock at all.

_ I won’t let him hurt you, though, my love. I promise. Never that. _

Mycroft’s hand keeps stroking, soothing. “You don’t have to think about it- it’s fine, love. It’s being handled.”  _ Or it will be if I have to personally shackle him to his next rehab location.  _

“I’ve brought your things up. And a curry, if that’s alright. I thought you might not wish to cook.”

Marmalade looks up at the murmuring voices, a low purr starting as she realizes her other human is nearby. Her paw slides up Greg’s chest toward Mycroft, flexing at him.  _ Sleepy. Pet me. _

His free hand gravitates naturally to her ladyship, earning a louder degree of purrs in response. 

“Would you like me to bring the curry over here? I know her majesty hates to be disrupted when she’s comfortable.”

 

*

 

A ghost of a smile crosses Greg's face as Marmalade reaches out for Mycroft. It's easy to start feeling safe in this moment - Mycroft's voice, Mycroft's gentle care -  _ "You did everything right..." - _ the door locked, dinner, each other's company. 

All the same, some things won't leave his head.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and keeps rubbing Marmalade as Mycroft brings the food over.

He's quiet as they eat - he can feel Mycroft trying to soothe him, assure him nothing is wrong and this is just an ordinary evening, and it's almost enough to convince him he was right with his first idea. The guy was an enemy of Mycroft's, a political agent of some kind, sent to cause trouble - in which case he should relax, put this out of his mind, and forget about it.

As they finish eating, Greg comes to the realisation he won't be able to do that on his own. It feels healthy, somehow, to acknowledge to himself he needs help. They decided to share a home together yesterday. His attachment to that happy milestone is damaged, his head full of worries like bees, and he doesn't want to close off. He wants to trust. It's a conscious decision to open up; it feels like a deep outward breath.

He waits until the plates are moved away, and the two of them are settled on the couch together, Marmalade still cuddled against his chest.

"Hey," he says, softly, even as his pulse picks up. He rests his head back against Mycroft's shoulder. "Help. The guy spoke like he knew you well. Spoke like I had things to worry about, being with you. Can you talk some ghosts out of me?"

He holds Mycroft's gaze.

"You're good at that."

 

*

 

_ I shall definitely be sending Sherlock somewhere… distasteful.   _

_ Perhaps a desert. _

Mycroft smiles, always good at pulling his fondness to the surface for Gregory, even amongst his own less than charitable thoughts for his brother.

“That was likely one of his goals, love- unsettling you. He kept his face from the cameras, but we’re fairly certain who it was. He does… know me. He has for a very long time.”

He cups Gregory’s cheek, thumb running along the line of the bone.

“I imagine he does think there would be things to worry about. He hates my lifestyle, hates the security and the protocols and the reporting in. Thinks I am far too controlling as well.”

He sighs. 

“He might have had a place with the services if it weren’t for the drugs. They make him rather… vicious. Spiteful.”

Mycroft presses a soft kiss to Greg’s temple.

“I am sorry he took that out on you, love.”

 

*

 

Greg listens quietly, drinking the words. His gaze softens as his cheek is stroked; he tilts his head into the kiss.

"S'difficult to sympathise, sometimes... people who get messed up by that stuff. You'd think they'd have heard something bad about drugs by now. M'sure they have their reasons for getting into it anyway, but..."

He sighs a little, eyes closing. 

"For the record," he murmurs, "I don't think you're controlling."

As Marmalade stirs against his chest, stretching sleepily, Greg rumples his fingers through her fur. It gives him the comfort and courage he needs to ask something else.

"Does he get bored with things quickly? That guy?" 

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a low huff. “You might be the only one, love.”

His hand drifts in Gregory’s hair, only hesitating briefly at the latter question. “Yes. I believe he is under the impression that certain combinations of drugs make him… less bored. He thinks he is too smart to succumb to his addiction, though the evidence would indicate otherwise.”

Or, rather, force his mind to either function more quietly or in a more… directed fashion. It’s hard to say any more, of course. Mycroft is not certain how much damage Sherlock has done to himself over the course of several overdoses and continually creative mixtures of “product.”

“Boredness used to result in tantrums. I am assuming this is one.”

His fingers draw circles, soothing and massaging. 

“What can I do to make you forget about him, love? I don’t want him invading our house, even if it’s just as a spectre in the mind.”

 

*

 

As Greg's eyes close again, enjoying the gentle massaging, he realises with a quiet flutter of humour that he and Marmalade are fairly similar in their deepest needs.  _ 'Just love me.'  _ He wonders if he's learning from her honesty. 

_ Tantrums,  _ he thinks. God knows he got used to those with Karen. Since they've separated, it's given him the clarity to see them for what they are. Ultimately, a lot of Karen's viciousness comes from a sense she's being treated unfairly by...

_ Oh. _

_ Oh my god. _

As the thought occurs, it slots into place like ideas do at work. Greg turns it in his mind, examining it like a puzzle cube. It fits.

_ God, baby... did you used to fuck this guy? _

A bubble of humour expands in Greg's chest at once. It only grows as he tests his new theory.

_ Did you 'get bored' of him, love? Is that it? Probably too coked up to see any difference between bored and frustrated. Couldn't possibly be his fault. Just like Karen. _

_ Christ. Polite enough when he thought I was a delivery guy. Only got upset when... _

_ "Oh, I’m in the right place. It's you I’m not as sure about." _

Greg finds himself suddenly smiling, his heart beating quick and deep. The relief is more potent and more soothing than any drug could ever be. 

Mycroft has a jealous ex, too.

_ Christ, no wonder you're so supportive with... _

As Greg nestles closer, nearly grinning, Marmalade trills softly in his arms. He kisses her on the forehead. 

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs. "M'just getting comfy..." He cuddles against Mycroft's chest, taking care to keep her cosy in his arms and not squashed between them. "You sleep, baby girl. We'll try to snuggle less disruptively."

_ God, why am I so happy about another mental ex to deal with?  _

_ Why do I feel like laughing? _

Jealousy is a solid and easy motive, he thinks, leaning up to kiss Mycroft's neck. It's the first thing CID look for when someone in this city is found with a knife between their shoulders. Ninety nine times out of a hundred, their suspect will turn out to be exactly the same person: jealousy, just working through a different human servant.

_ Almost hope I come across you again, weirdo.  _

_ Might be different now I know you're just a bitter ex-lover, wishing you were me. _

Smiling, Greg murmurs against Mycroft's neck. 

"Tell me what I should do when he turns up again, so I don't cause you trouble - then have some wine to catch up with me. Come have a shower with me when we're tired, and take me to bed."

 

*

 

“Ignore him, if you can. Call me- feel free to make it clear you are doing so, and he may run off.”

Mycroft lifts a brow as he realizes Greg is smiling again.  _ Well. That was unexpectedly easy. _ He’d started to worry this would be something else Greg would worry about, something like Karen’s presence- a thing that easily nudges Greg into shattering apart. 

_ Maybe he is improving, then.  _ A bit more confidence, a bit more self-esteem.

He smiles. 

“I should warn you, he might retaliate if he feels ignored or if he simply wishes to cause you difficulty, as he did today. But unless he is high enough to become more… physical, with his tantrums, it should be sufficient to simply report his location to me, and I will send someone along to deal with him.”

His arms wrap around Greg, drawing him closer, kissing his temple again and ruffling his fingers through Marmalade’s fur.

“You never cause me any trouble, love. Only happiness.”

 

*

 

Greg leans up into the kiss at his temple, still smiling. 

"Makes me happy," he murmurs, "making you happy. Hope I get better and better at it."

_ This time yesterday, _ he thinks, as he nuzzles into Mycroft's neck,  _ I was in Colchester.  _ It seems unreal. He was sitting at a table with his sullen brother, with Lizzie trying her hardest to bond them together again. It feels like weeks have passed since then.

_ I'll text Lizzie tomorrow. _ Let the dust settle properly, then see how she is. Andy can't have been easy to live with today, and Greg wants her to know Mycroft still wants to meet her. 

_ Everything'll work out,  _ Greg thinks, and finds himself almost surprised to believe it.  _ Maybe I've reached a point where there's so much chaos I'm just used to it.  _

He kisses his lover's jaw.

_ Maybe it's knowing you're still here. All this crap, and you're still right here. _

_ And nothing'll come between us. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ramp up in angst and poor choices ahead (for this and the next chapter).

Mycroft arrives to work at Monday happily remembering the images of Gregory in various suits he’d arranged for his partner to try on (and then remove, quite slowly, at home). He looked quite good in everything, as anticipated, and Mycroft is quite looking forward to having his own lovely arm candy at the reception on Friday.

Besides that, Anthea has an entire team of retired MI-5 agents assigned to monitor Sherlock, all with Mycroft’s full blessing to annoy his younger brother as much as humanly possible (though he is not sure that command has been relayed).

He clears his morning meetings with ease. Even Edwin should be able to find no fault in his work ethic, regardless of weekends off. Mycroft is _productive._ By ten he’s back at his desk, sorting through the various other pressing matters of the day.

“Sir?” Anthea strides into his office, looking like the cat that caught the canary, which always means someone is about to experience a very special kind of suffering. “I’ve completed the extended workup on Karen Lestrade.”

Mycroft lifts a brow. “Very good. Anything in particular I should-”

“Everything, actually. She is- honestly I think we could make a fair bit of money if we sold her to a university psychology department. However, in terms of the most pressing issues….”

She flips through the first few pages, including a psych analysis conducted by one of her staff, and lands on an entire section full of photos and details on several men.

“Are these-”

“The ones we know about right now, yes.”

Right at the top is a photo that makes Mycroft wince, even though he knows it isn’t Gregory he’s looking at. “Really?”

“Oh yes. I don’t think she’s ever had even a passing dalliance with shame.”

_Shit._

That is not something he can spring on Gregory. Not with him still fairly sore about the dinner. He’ll wait until that’s a bit less fresh, perhaps after Lizzie arranges to let him see the girls again- Mycroft is still certain she will. And evidence would be beneficial, to assure Greg this is not an act of spite. Just facts.

There is another face in the file, however, that bears more pressing interest. “Good lord, young men are idiots.”

“I won’t dispute that.”

He taps his phone, about to text Gregory and ask him to lunch- this one, at least, should feel like less of a blow, but it will likely help to laugh about it together- when a third photo catches his eye buried amongst the rest.

One long finger touches the edge and slides it out, his face falling and blood growing several degrees colder.

“Anthea- this is- extremely unlikely-”

“Ah- yes. That one is- well they _did_ meet- we’re still working out how he slipped our watchers that time.”

He blinks, staring at the photo for long enough that he can sense her readying to ask for orders. “How much of my afternoon can be cleared?”

“I can arrange a few hours.”

“Do it. And get me the latest on his tracking.”

He sighs and opens up an email. Not ideal, but it is better than letting Ryan bloody Stringer needle at Gregory for any longer without letting his lover know precisely _why_ he’s such an utter arse all the time.

 

*

 

 _M Holmes, sent 11:47am_   
_Encrypted packet detected._ _  
_Enter authorization code now.

_Darling, I’ve had Anthea doing a little research into Karen just to ensure we have accounted for any other mischief she might get up to. It has been… interesting reading._

_I think we can both agree that Karen is not inclined to good decisions when it comes to her intimate affairs -  you are of course the exception to an otherwise ignominious record. We’ve been looking into those relationships to ensure there is nothing else we ought to be concerned about, and one of the names that came up may strike a bit close._

_I’m attaching some pictures that may upset you a bit. Nothing graphic, but I would not recommend opening them while your door is open. I think they may give you some insight into his behavior of late - no doubt some of the difficulty caused has been intentional._

_If I may make a recommendation regarding him: when I have someone thought to be passing secrets, there are two methods one can apply (besides an immediate and direct cessation). The first is to let them continue as they are, and slowly feed them whatever you’d like the other party to be aware of- lies or no, you control the narrative. Expect that he will be telling her everything you say and everything you do._

_The second is to feed them the sort of information that will cause the other party to burn them for you. In your case, it may be preferable to ensure that Karen no longer wishes to see him, and then let his own idiocy be the reason he must be reassigned. There must be enough with his mishandling of the Fenton evidence for that, and if he shows little improvement, well, that is hardly your fault._

_I am afraid the rest of my day has been rather suddenly booked up, otherwise I would have brought you this in person, but let me know if there is anything I can do for you once we get home, love._

_I love you._

_-M_

 

*

 

Monday is paperwork day. There's a lot of it today - London's criminals have had a busy weekend, and they've had several developments on cases which come under Greg's authority. A general meeting takes them until ten, then a catch up with Sally nudges the clock close to eleven.

Greg gets himself another coffee, shuts his office door, and settles down to sign his name five hundred times.

Messages filter in and out as he works. It's a quiet day, but a necessary one - and he'd rather be doing this than in court, or out dealing with emergencies. He keeps an eye on his phone, catching a few important ones in the stream, then just before lunch hears the pleasant _'ping'_ which marks an email he won't want to miss.

Smiling, sitting back in his chair, Greg unlocks his phone.

His first glance at the e-mail makes him grin. _Wall of text,_ he thinks, and it leaves him feeling so fond of Mycroft he almost wonders if they should hook up for lunch. He loves the sight of those long, precise sentences. He loves 'darling'.

The sight of his ex-wife's name takes the edge off Greg's smile a little.

As he reads, it fades more and more. He ends up skimming the last few paragraphs, too concerned by the mention of these pictures he needs to view with his door closed.

He loads the first, bracing.

At first, it doesn't make any sense that he's looking at a photo of Ryan Stringer - leaving a flat somewhere, smiling rather smugly to himself.

_Why've you...?_

_What is this to do with..._

Greg flicks through the other photos, lost - more Ryan - different clothes, different days, same flat, same smug little smile.

When he reaches the final photo, and sees Ryan getting into Karen's car, laughing, sharing some joke with the unseen driver, the dots suddenly join.

Greg's mouth opens.

He flips back through the photos at speed - weeks apart. _Karen's flat. Stringer... but..._

_Oh, Jesus._

Things start to making sense at speed, collapsing one after the other like roof supports in a burning building.

_Weird interest in my 'girlfriend'. Only got weirder when it was 'boyfriend'. Always commenting. Always asking..._

_Holy flaming hell._

As Greg feels his hand start to shake, he reaches quickly for his coffee. The solid surface of the mug is a comfort to grip. He drinks, shutting his eyes and trying to think.

It's impossible not to be angry. All this time, he might as well have had Karen sitting there outside his office, goading him, lapping up his secrets. Stringer will have been a gold mine to her. She'll have used him for all he's worth.

The arrogant little prick must think he's her partner-in-crime.

_Doesn't realise he's her puppet._

_All those knowing smirks. Thinking he's a clever bastard. Christ, why didn't I see?_

Greg puts the empty mug down with a clunk. He keeps hold of it, trying to calm himself. He finds himself looking at the closed office door.

It crosses his mind.

Strolling out there, calmly. Giving Ryan a nudge. _'Stringer? C'mon. Need a quick word.'_ Guiding the pointy-shoed little twat into the conference room, bolting the door, and disassembling some of the furniture using Ryan's skull.

This would count, Greg thinks, glancing again at Mycroft's email, as _'immediate and direct cessation'._

The other options don't sound as satisfying. It makes his chest ache - he _knows_ they're sensible, and he knows Mycroft will have better experience with these things than anyone - but Christ, he wants to _hurt_ Stringer. He wants Stringer to understand in a very physical and painful way that he's not the strutting cockerel he thinks he is. He might believe he's lording it over Greg, passing amusing little titbits to his boss's ex-wife like she's a Persian cat rolling in his lap - but the truth is he's a smug little shit, now dangling his cock in the human equivalent of a Venus fly trap. Greg has never wanted to throw someone out of a window more.

He rereads the email, consciously trying to loosen the muscles in his jaw.

_'Expect that he will be telling her everything you say and everything you do.'_

_Christ, I'm too old for this._

He and Mycroft should just fucking move. Go somewhere gorgeous and faraway. Get married completely alone on a beach.

_Fucking Stringer._

Inhaling, Greg realises he's going to need back-up on this. He's going to need someone to watch him or he'll have a serious problem on his hands.

He picks up his desk phone, jabbing in the familiar extension with his thumb.

He speaks the second Sally picks up.

"Hey," he says. "Can you come in here, please? Need your help."

 

*

 

Sally is nearly as angry as Greg. He shows her the photos, and tells her what he can. He asks her to keep Stringer as far away from his office this afternoon as she can, if the little arsehole wants to live to see five PM. She's good enough to make a quick check of the staff handbook for Greg, but unless Stringer has been passing confidential information about an investigation outside of Scotland Yard, there's not a lot they can do.

Legally, it's just gossip.

It's not enough to take official steps.

"And... well," she says, with care, "you don't want people to think you're abusing your power. If you transfer him or fire him, and it becomes known that he's, uh - involved with your ex-wife..."

Greg sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I know," he mutters. "It'd be dodgy as hell. You don't have to tell me."

She tries a weak smile. "We'll keep an eye on him. Suppose you don't _have_ to do anything... knowing he's spying on you kinda robs him of his power, right?"

She's right. Greg inhales, trying to let it settle his unease.

"Thanks, Sal," he says. "I'll - get on with what I was doing."

"Will coffee help?"

"Jesus. Yes."

She smiles, letting herself out.

 

*

 

Greg works for a couple more hours, unsurprised to find himself distracted. It's hard to let go of the anger. The repetition of reading, checking and signing - this morning, almost soothing - has made his brain too quiet. Thoughts come sneaking in while he's not looking. He only realises they're there when they've made themselves comfortable, gnawing away at him.

_Like being cheated on again._

It isn't - nowhere near. Greg remembers being cheated on. He remembers it very well, and it remembers the smoking crater it made of his life every single time. He used to get ill. It reached the point where he could see it coming from a distance each time, feel when she was tiring of him and on the hunt for someone to help humiliate him. Waiting for her to cheat was as bad as discovering she was. With the last affair, it was actually a twisted relief to find out at last.

This feeling is different - but it's an echo of that old, gut-wrenching misery. Karen will have gotten the same kick as she used to. She can't really cheat on Greg, not any more - not in the same way - but she can humiliate him still.

And with Ryan Stringer.

_Christ._

It disturbs Greg on a level he can't really process. Ryan is nearly twenty years younger than Karen. She'll know exactly what he is: a jumped-up, arrogant, preening little turd. She's fucking him all the same. Karen will have seen Ryan Stringer orgasm, and Greg can't stop thinking about it. He desperately _wants_ to stop.

It's just digging into the back of his brain.

Ryan's sitting out there now, pretending to work. He's probably had the best few months of his life. _Shagging the boss's ex._ It's the same smug sense of victory that Karen's lovers must have felt they had over Greg, and he can't bear it. _'I've had your wife.'_ It's worse with Ryan, in a way. _'I've had your wife - and you're gay now, are you?'_

_Christ._

Greg puts his pen aside halfway through his signature, unable to do this anymore. He needs to settle. There's one person in this world who can get this out of his head and soothe him back to himself.

Karen and Stringer bring out the worst in him.

Mycroft brings out the best.

Greg reaches for his phone, slides it across his paperwork and opens his messages.

 

_[14:14] Hey... got your email :| Thanks for the warning. are you free for coffee now? I'll come to you if its easier... xxx_

 

There are other things he could say. They don't look right by text - he wants to say _'I'm a bit worked up',_ but he doesn't want it to come across as petty jealousy; _'can't stop thinking about it',_ but that seems way too much; _'I need you',_ but those are big words, and he feels like he should be able to shrug this off.

In the end, he leaves it as it is and hits send. He tells himself everything will be easier to handle after twenty minutes with Mycroft - even just his voice on the phone.

 

*

 

An hour after he sends the email, Mycroft is tearing out the door. Thomas is summoned immediately, Anthea ( _mental note- increase her salary again)_ is left to manage the remainder of his tasks that must be done from the office.

He glowers at his laptop in the car, answering emails and finishing off his morning reports with a great deal more curtness that he normally allots.

Gregory has not yet written him back.

 _Perhaps he has not seen it._ Besides the length, that is another reason he’d chosen that format over text- should Gregory be at a crime scene, it would not do to distract him with tawdry revelations.

Sherlock’s flat is as he remembers it from his brief visit when Sherlock initially let it. Sherlock was not present, of course- Mycroft makes such visits to note the places his brother is most likely to secret his illicit substances, then sends his people to monitor them from time to time later.

This time, of course, his brother is actually present.

Mycroft unlocks the door and descends into the rather squalid basement, steeling both his heart and his face to the matter he must discuss.

Sherlock, of course, ignores him entirely, as though he is merely a fly that has entered the shoddy, small space, scarcely worthy of Sherlock lifting his eyes from his microscope. This is a game then- Sherlock shall not speak first. Even this must be Mycroft’s responsibility, and in that Sherlock will mark it a weakness of character that he does not hold out to _win._

“Brother mine.”

“You are subjecting yourself to legwork. Very unusual, Mycroft. Are you ever so worried?”

“Always.”

“Mm, not about me, however, as I am at this very moment depressingly sober.” His eyes flick up from the slides he’s viewing, skimming his brother over with a dark, cool assessment. “Your lover? Nothing to do with me.”

“I fear in this case, brother mine, you are incorrect.” Mycroft folds his hands over his umbrella. “And you are not sober.”

“Mm. Sober enough.” Sherlock’s head tilts. Mycroft quietly reads the small signs, the dilation of his pupils, the sharpness of his movements, the undercurrent of aggression, guessing at the nature of the concoction he’s made up for today. Cocaine, he would guess, is the primary agent, but knowing Sherlock it could be mixed with nearly anything else. He sneers when he realizes what Mycroft’s next thought is. “Yes, I have the list, but you will not need it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Sherlock rises, still studying, prowling around Mycroft like a large cat. “Now. Your lover. But not your lover directly- someone else. His reactions upon meeting me were abnormal, a strong fear instinct converted to scarcely contained violence- excellent choice there, by the way, I’m given to understand that sort is superior in bed.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind refraining from any sort of inquiring into my bedroom-”

“Mmm, quite right, though I can always delete the incriminating memories later. What do you want, brother?”

“There is a woman you’ve been seen with.” He plucks a photo from his coat pocket and turns it to face Sherlock. She is all shark teeth and shining eyes, but Mycroft’s gaze is on his brother’s face- and there are tells there, much as Sherlock tries to hide them. “From the location of your meeting, I am guessing she offered you either sex or drugs. Both? How ambitious.”

“Your lover’s former lover? No- wife? Ah. Are you a homewrecker now, Fatcroft? Tempt him in with copious amounts of… cake?”

“Very amusing, Sherlock.” Mycroft steps closer to his brother’s winding path, turning up the levels of _threat_ in his every minute expression, just to make himself clear. “She is a vicious, evil little creature deliberately trying to do him harm, and you will tell me what she wanted from _you.”_

Several hours later, he is back in the car with his wrist wrapped in ice. He really _ought_ to have Sherlock brought back in again but as it stands he is too violent- he would be imprisoned, just for long enough to do some real damage to himself or others, and then where would they be.

“Thomas,” he growls between gritted teeth. “Please inform Anthea I have need for some cosmetics.”

“Yes, sir.”

With his uninjured hand he lifts his phone and sighs when he reads the two-hours-old message.

_[16:06] Hello darling- so sorry, I was indisposed. Coffee is, alas, out of the question now, but I should be home in about two hours. Shall I order dinner? MH x_

 

*

 

The comfort of seeing Mycroft had been a gamble, one which seemed worth taking - until the time begins to pass, and it becomes clear to Greg it's not on the cards. With no option but to slump back into his paperwork, he doesn't realise the mistake he's made.

To his discomfort over being humiliated in his own office, by a man nearly half his age, he has added a lethal ingredient: _too busy to see me._

He nudges the thought aside at first. It feels almost easy. _Part of the package. He can't drop everything because I fancy a coffee. I'll see him tonight._ Sunken into the sort of reports he's read a thousand times before, distracted from what's going on in his own head, he doesn't realise how frequently the thought comes back. He doesn't notice it changing as he grows more tired and the hours pass. _'Indisposed'. Weird phrase._ Work mode is engaged, and Greg's bored brain occupies itself by turning that phrase over in his head, doing what it does through instinct when someone across an interview table skips in their story. _'Working', surely? 'In a meeting'?_

_'Indisposed' suggests social. Casual._

_Odd._

Exhausted with paperwork by half three, Greg gets himself a coffee in an almost zombie-like state. He adds more sugar than he knows he should. _I need the boost. Feel a bit crap._

Returning from the staff kitchen, he spots the approaching swagger in his peripheral vision. The jolt to his heart doesn't reach his face; it just sours his mood another step.

"Alright, boss?"

Ryan grins as he passes.

Greg doesn't speak. He forces himself to make an acknowledging sort of noise in the back of his throat, and carries on. The encounter is over in a flash. He's back at his desk within a minute, reaching in annoyance for the next stack of forms.

_Rat-faced little arsehole._

_Jesus, is this bothering me too much?_

_Let it go, man. Not even your wife anymore. What the hell does it matter?_

The coffee gives him a surge for maybe fifteen minutes. Greg burns his way through the stack; it speeds his background thoughts as well.

_Christ, though._

_Handing that to me then vanishing._

_'Hello darling, she's fucking Ryan Stringer. Have a lovely afternoon.'_

_Stop._

_Stop, idiot. Get out of your own arsehole. He didn't mean it like that, and you know it. Trying to warn you before Stringer can pass anything else on. That's all. And you're going to sit here fuming? When he's trying to help?_

_Just because he's too busy to come give you fuss. Like you're a kid._

_Lucky he copes with you at all._

Greg is jogged briefly from his thoughts by a baffling stack of expense reports which make no sense. He grinds himself several stages further into stress trying to work them out. He tries signing them all anyway, then on the final form he realises they've been filled out on the wrong month - the figures have been added to money not yet spent.

They'll need to be redone.

He locates the constable who did them and shouts briefly. She gets upset almost at once. She's not been here long - first time she'd filled them in. Greg crumbles at once, realises he's now forever sealed in her mind as the arsehole inspector who blew his lid over ten minutes' worth of forms. He tries to back-pedal, change his story and soothe her a bit, tell her these things are complicated, but the damage is done. He can see it in her face. Even Sally is watching with discreet concern from across the office.

By the time Greg gets back to his desk, he feels worse than ever. The conscious part of his brain berates him for taking his own frustration out on entirely the wrong person.

The darker, quieter corners are still talking, too.

_Why 'order dinner'?_

_Are you tired of me cooking?_

_You do leave things, sometimes._

The artificial energy imparted by coffee and sugar starts to fold. Greg buckles under its weight.

_'Hello darling, Ryan Stringer has documented and reported your every move for the last year. What shall we have for dinner?'_

It's somehow comforting to ignore Mycroft's text. Distressed, angry and tired, it feels like the only safe way for Greg to express, _I don't care about our dinner. He's been watching me. He's sitting out there now, thinking my life is a joke to share with my ex._

Five o'clock crawls by.

 _'I might as well finish these'_ covers up, _'I don't want to go home'._ Greg knows he's now reached layers of the pile which could easily wait until tomorrow, or even next week - next month, some of them - but he keeps telling himself the distraction stops him thinking.

He's wrong - and the cycle keeps pulling him back to its darkest place.

_He offered to talk tonight... you know that, don't you? He said he'd look after you. He told you he was busy. Why did you even ask him about coffee? Because you're determined to feel hurt he couldn't come immediately._

_He can't do things like that. You know that. You can't have that._

_Work comes first._

_Especially for something this tragic. Not even your wife anymore. What's to feel upset about? So he's gossiped about you, laughed at you. So you're a joke. Suck it up._

Half past six, and Greg finds himself looking at the bottom of his in-tray - paperclips and an old blister pack of painkillers. He's not seen the bottom of the thing since last January, and then it was only to give it a dust before replacing the papers.

 _No more excuses,_ his brain tells him. _Can't hide here anymore. Can't just keep distracting yourself. You finally have to stop being pathetic._

He barely notices a thing as he walks to his car. As he turns the key, music blares from the radio - he switches it off with a wince. He wants silence. His head hurts and he feels empty, full of nothing but a black drain of thoughts swirling round and round. _Couldn't you have rung me to tell me? Must have taken you time to type out the email. Just rung me to check I was okay with it. Not... drop it like a bomb, and leave me just to..._

In the silence, Greg's brain - after hours of lonely practice - continues its good work as he drives.

_Don't go in there sulking and moping, Lestrade. That's the last thing you should do. He emailed you because you should be cool with this. He's expecting you to handle it like a bloody grown up. Don't fill up his evening wanting fuss and comfort. There's nothing to talk about._

_So you're the laughing stock of the office, thanks to some kid in skinny trousers. Suck it up._

_So she's still able to make you feel cheated on, even now. Don't let her get into your head. Easy._

_So you don't have the kind of boyfriend you can just need sometimes._

_Handle it._

_It's not his fault it hurts._

Ten minutes from Mycroft's house, Greg reaches a shaking hand for the radio.

He finds the loudest pop he can and blasts it, forcing himself to wake up. He's going to leave his crap day in the car. _C'mon,_ he tells himself. _You're lucky. Don't wreck it._ He used to do this several times a week when he was married, so he wouldn't take stress home to Karen. If they're going to have a good evening, he needs to make some effort. He needs to leave the worrying outside the house.

By the time he lets himself through the front door, he's forced it all down.

The generated calm feels as real as any other kind, and it's dangerously reassuring. He even gives himself a quiet smile. He's proud. _There you go, mate. We had a titanically crap day and you're still good when you get home. That's the spirit._

A small green-eyed face peers at him from around the top of the stairs.

"Mrrrow?"

Greg grins, leaving his bag on the landing to scoop her up.

"Hello, gorgeous," he murmurs. He strokes through her fur, closing his eyes. "Missed me, princess, did you? Did you have a nice day?"

Marmalade begins to purr, gently paddling his shirt. Warmth soothes from where her paws press.

Greg strokes his thumb over her forehead. His chest aches as he kisses the spot he's just smoothed.

_Should've just driven home for an hour with you, sweetheart. Had a cuddle._

_Stopped my fussing._


	13. Chapter 13

It takes Mycroft half an hour longer than expected to return home, stranded in traffic. In the meantime, he’s sent Gregory several more messages, all unresponded to.

_[16:45] Thoughts on dinner, my love?_

_[17:26] Are you being kept late, darling? Shall I get something easy to heat up?_

_[18:03] Heading home now. Curry?_

He’s been trying not to sound _desperate_ , but in reality he’s simmering in it. Two hours lacking in response is worrying. Despite promising himself that he’s better than that he’s checked his surveillance feeds- Gregory was at work all day, no rushing off to crime scenes. As far as he can tell he’s scarcely left his office.

_Perhaps he did not take it very well._

It’s not an area Mycroft knows well- no partners could ever have been capable of cheating, seeing as he’s scarcely ever opted for exclusive relationships himself.

He’s also carefully ignoring the risk of emotions when it comes to Sherlock, particularly considering that his brother had bruised him severely enough that he required Anthea’s assistance in cosmetically disguising the mark.

Surely, however, his own problems are secondary to those Gregory is going through. He’ll do something about Sherlock soon. Preferably when he’s on a mixture that leaves him more languid than violent.

Seeing to Gregory now is more important.

Mycroft picks up the curry he’s identified as more or less Greg’s favorite, along with some vegetable samosas, and plucks up his most loving aspect as he ascends the stairs.

“Darling? I am sorry for the delay, traffic was miserable. But I have brought curry, I hope that is amenable.”

 

*

 

Only a moment passes before Greg appears. He's still in his coat, and the small cat in his arms is clearly enjoying the first few moments of happy reunion, purring deeply with her face buried in his lapels.

He smiles - tired, his eyes a little dull. For a man who's been sitting at a desk all day, it's quite a level of exhaustion to reach.

"S'alright," he said. "I think I just beat you. Curry's perfect by me."

As Mycroft reaches them, Greg looks down at Marmalade and shifts his hand, making room for his lover to stroke her.

Marmalade looks up sleepily. She blinks, stretching. Her purr deepens at the sight of her other adoptive father.

"Think she waits at the top of the stairs now," Greg says, sliding a finger under her chin to tickle. His eyes stay on her, quiet and fond. "Got to pay the Marmalade tax before we're allowed in."

 

*

 

“Our clever sovereign. Hopefully she has not been studying my historical texts on methods of government. We’ll be offering her tithes of toys and the best cuts of meat.”

He bestows his pets unto their queen, leaning forward to kiss Greg on the cheek.

 _Tired._ Mycroft still, as a rule, attempts not to analyze Gregory- he does not want to dig to know whether that tiredness is a result of work or… emotional fatigue.

_If he wishes me to know, he will tell me._

“She looks terribly comfortable. I shall plate up, love, I do not wish to remove her from her current throne.”

He kisses Marmalade’s head and presses on into the kitchen. Once they’re sitting and comfortable- then he’ll see if Ryan Stringer is the source of his lover’s discontent.

“Wine?”

 

*

 

Greg follows to the kitchen, carrying Marmalade with care against his chest. She chirps approvingly at this change of location, clearly hoping there's going to be titbits provided very soon.

The offer of wine is met with a small groan.

"Christ, yes please. That'd be great." Greg takes up a stool by the breakfast counter, settling on it with care. He's still gazing at Marmalade as he strokes her. She, in turn, watches Mycroft; whenever he gets a little closer to the fridge, she shifts hopefully. "We've still got some white leftover from last night, have we?"

 

*

 

“I believe so… mm, just one large glass’s worth, really. There- you have the rest of that, I’ll open something else.”

He plates, sets everything up neatly including Marmalade’s dinner, and tries very hard not to read into why Gregory hasn’t really met his eye yet.

_He’s exhausted. Just needs a bit of space- he could still be coping with all of it. I just need to show him that I am available when he needs me. That’s the recommended thing, isn’t it?_

That and feeding people. Gregory always ensures Mycroft eats when he might otherwise forget, it’s the least he can do to return the favor. Mycroft even pulls out Greg’s chair chivalrously. “Here we are, love. And two samosas for you as well.”

He waits until they’ve both had a bit to eat before he says anything about the major issue of the day.

“I am… terribly sorry about Stringer being involved in all this, love. Would you like to talk about it?”

 

*

 

The act of chivalry raises a smile, however small. Greg presses a kiss to Mycroft's shoulder as he takes a seat.

"Thanks, darlin'," he murmurs, and turns gratefully to his food.

For a while, he and Marmalade make something of a pair, both absorbed in the important business of eating. Where Marmalade occasionally pauses to clean her whiskers, retrieving small pieces of jellied salmon from where they shouldn't be, Greg tidies up his mouth with a small press of his thumb. He finishes his glass of wine a little faster than he might normally, but it seems to settle him. He's sitting easier in his chair.

His eyes lift from his plate to the question; the skip in his expression is brief. It becomes a smile.

"I - don't know if there's much to talk about, to be honest. Shouldn't be surprised. I'll keep an eye on him and watch what I say. I kinda did already."

He pushes back his chair, picking up his wine glass as he heads over to the counter.

"How was your day?" he asks, as he uncorks the bottle. "People still giving you grief over Friday?"

 

*

 

“Eternally. I am beginning to question the purpose of my division’s existence if our suggestions must continually be set aside in favor of politics and corporate interest.”

_He doesn’t wish to speak of it yet. The thought alone is encouraging him to drink._

_But he smiled._

That must be alright- alright enough- for Mycroft. Greg is a grown man, Mycroft will not press him into subjects he does not wish to delve.

_He’ll come to me. He knows he can come to me._

Under other circumstances, he might make an offer of sex, gentle and slow- or not, depending on Gregory’s preference- but given the particular nature of Stringer and Karen’s relationship, that seems ill form.

 _No- a film, perhaps, and quiet. That should better suit_.

“What about you? Any new cases of interest?”

 

*

 

"Everything seems quiet since the Fentons went away," Greg admits, returning to the table with a rather full wine glass. He takes a drink as he sits down. "Honestly, after all the fuss with the trial, normal work feels pretty straightforward. M'not complaining."

He watches Marmalade licking salmon flakes from the edge of her bowl for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"I had a paperwork day," he says, glancing at Mycroft - and though the humour in his eyes is reluctant, it's there. The wine is starting to soften him. A brightness sparkles through the nerves. "Please don't make me sign anything tonight. M'sick of the sight of my own name."

 

*

 

“I shall try my utmost to refrain.”

Mycroft smiles. This seems to be working. Even if it’s really just the wine, he will count the victory.  

He begins tidying, pausing on his way back to the table with his own more modest glass to run his hand affectionately through Greg’s hair.

_You’ll be alright, my love._

“What can I offer to take your mind off paperwork, darling? Something relaxing on the television?”

 

*

 

Greg's head lifts into Mycroft's touch as if of its own volition; his eyes flutter a little, then shut.

After a moment of silence, he leans into Mycroft's body.

One arm goes quietly around Mycroft's waist, stalling him in his tidying. Greg's face turns into his chest.

_Stay._

_Just for a moment._

As Greg rests against Mycroft, and the silence begins to lengthen, he seems to remember he was asked a question.

"Sure," he murmurs. "TV. That'd be great."

His fingers stir across the back of Mycroft's shirt, an unfinished movement - starting to close in the fabric, then lying themselves flat instead. He inhales.

"Have you - got work stuff to do?"

 

*

 

Mycroft’s hand cards through Greg’s hair in the silence, waiting. He’s gentle and soft, soothing as much as he is able without words.

_I have you, love. Right here for you._

It’s wondrous that Gregory lets him do this. Permission to comfort. Guidance to do it better. He might not have the most extensive grounding in emotions, but Mycroft would like to think he is getting better with them, and that is all down to Gregory.

He never knew his heart would want to support and cherish as much as it yearns for touch and comfort.

“Not tonight, beautiful. I am entirely yours.”

 

*

 

A moment passes.

Greg shifts gently on his chair, turning properly into his lover's body. His other arm wraps around Mycroft's waist. The hold is a little too tight to be casual, a little too tentative to be easy. As Greg nuzzles against Mycroft's heart he keeps his face downturned, away from his lover's gaze.

The fingers stroking through his hair cause his chest to swell.

A slight shake passes through his fingers, masked with a flex. It turns into a stroke over Mycroft's lower back.

"Everything to me," he mumbles. His voice catches. "I love you."

 

*

 

“I love you too.”

Mycroft keeps stroking. Perhaps he had been wrong about the utility of sex in such an instance, but he would like to be sure Gregory is not seeking a more mundane form of contact.

“What if we go to bed early, hm? I can bring my computer if you’d like to watch something there… fall asleep watching someone make one of those complicated tarts….”

He sets down his wine so he can stroke Greg’s cheek and the back of his neck.

“Or anything else you might like, love. Whatever you would like. You know I want to give you everything you could possibly need.”

 

*

 

The suggestion of bed causes another slight fingertip flex. Greg nestles a little closer, softening more and more with each touch; the fingers over the back of his neck make him shiver.

It's still a few moments before he speaks.

"Can we - s-spend some time?" The request is followed at once by nervous explanation. "Long day. M'kinda tired. I - don't really want to think much. Just feel."

He exhales, brushing a kiss over Mycroft's heart.

"Feel like I could drink a bottle by myself."

 

*

 

“I imagine that would hurt a bit tomorrow.” Mycroft fingers dip under Greg’s chin, urging him to tilt up so Mycroft can see his lovely face. “But I believe I can come up with a solution to _feeling,_ if you like.”

Mycroft tries not to feel too badly that the mere thought already has him mildly hard. He is fortunate, after all. Gregory is a very handsome man.

_Let me take care of you, beautiful._

He dips, kissing Gregory’s forehead, then dipping to meet his lips.

“Would that suit?”

 

*

 

Greg responds with obedience to the lifting of his face, even though his eyes follow only nervously. When they meet Mycroft's, they hold.

Opening trust tempers the look of fragility.

"I love you," he whispers, and his eyes flicker closed as Mycroft leans down to kiss his lips. They're given willingly. Greg shivers, his arms tightening around Mycroft's waist as their mouths stroke. "F-Fuck. Take me to bed - please. I love you so much."

 

*

 

“Anything you want, beautiful- I love you….”

Only the things that could be harmful to an overly curious cat manage to get put away before they go upstairs- the rest can wait. Mycroft will manage it in the morning, while Gregory is doing up their breakfasts and they are back in their usual routine and the spectre of Ryan Stringer’s worthless espionage tactics.

_For now, I can make you forget._

He’s gentle with undoing Greg’s buttons, kissing every freshly revealed swath of skin, nudging his lover steadily backwards until they’re both rolling about half-dressed in the sheets, cocks fully hard and pressing out, seeking each other with each grinding of their hips.

“Mmm- Gregory….”

 

*

 

Greg's hands tighten in the back of Mycroft's crumpled shirt, a whimper broken from his throat. He pants as their grinding starts to take on a rhythm. Relief floods his face, scattered by a visible surge of frustration at the few pieces of fabric still between them.

"O-Off - _off,"_ he gasps, "get these off - "

With some twisting, pulling and arching, distracted often by the need to kiss, he manages to free Mycroft's body from the confines of clothing. All of it is thrown from the bed. It can stay on the floor - it doesn't matter.

"I want you," he moans as they finally slide together skin-on-skin, no barrier left between them. Heat rises in his face at once. "Oh god, oh fuck - I _want_ you - I'm not kidding, I _need_ you."

 

*

 

“Yes- Gregory- god-”

This is right. Gregory in their bed, their own bed, where he is entirely under Mycroft’s protection and nothing evil can touch him. Perhaps the thought is a bit selfish, but so be it- Gregory _needs_ him.

Mycroft would never even try to resist such a calling.

They roll, legs twining together, until Mycroft is on his back, his hands cupping Gregory’s face and kissing him hard. He could go for either way right now, it doesn’t matter who is inside who or if they just come together, rutting, which may in fact be increasingly likely. The specifics aren’t important as long as Gregory is happy and safe.

He loses himself in it, in the simple raw sensations of pleasure and skin and the _relief_ that Gregory will be fine-

Greg’s thigh slides between his and he curses against his lover’s lips.

“However- however you want- nnn- _fuck_ \- just- soon, or- god-”

 

*

 

Greg's moans deepen as they pull tighter together and more of their skin comes into contact. He seems lost in the closeness of their mouths, as if he needs to kiss more than he needs to breathe. His hands can't seem to find a place to be on Mycroft's body. The roam between his back, his waist and his thighs with increasing urgency, always pulling, always tightening, _closer, closer._

On top again, Greg shudders and covers Mycroft with his body, pressing him into the bed. The words are almost lost between them.

"Soon," he gasps. With a nervous moan he swallows, breathing his reply between kisses. "Like this. I just - I-I just need to see - "

He reaches for Mycroft's hands on his face. Their fingers tangle as he loosens their hold and moves them, pinning them to the covers either side of Mycroft's head.

"Mine," he whimpers, gripping them. "Mine, _mine_ \- "

The kiss is almost bruising. The position gives Greg more control, and he uses it for slow, hard thrusts which are neither delicate nor gentle, rutting their cocks together with a maddening lack of speed.

 

*

 

He moans into the kiss, shuddering as Greg takes control. There’s always a heady rush in it, in releasing himself to his lover’s direction- something he never would have experienced were it not for his deep trust in his partner.

“Oh _fuck-_ Greg- yours-”

Mycroft’s conscious mind is fading. All he think is _have me, have me, take me-_

Then a ripple of pain shoots from his wrist.

His moan is covered by another kiss, but his hand flexes instinctively, trying to shift so Greg’s palm does not slip too low again. _Dammit, Sherlock._ His brother _would_ find a way to hamper his sex life even without being physically present.

Fortunately the trusty chemical lines of pain and pleasure response in the mind are not so far off- he will not let a bit of pain stand in the way of him giving Greg what he needs- whatever he needs.

“Yours- all yours, love-”

 

*

 

Greg's grip loosens to let Mycroft shift. Their lips break apart, their breath ragged, and he glances toward the bedside for lube - apparently anticipating Mycroft reaching for it.

Before he can stretch over, his eye catches on something to the side of Mycroft's head.

Greg's forehead tightens with a blink of confusion. His hand diverts, brushing against the white pillowcase instead. He lifts his fingertips to study them.

As he realises it's make-up, bewilderment fills his face.

He glances down at Mycroft at once. His eyes flash through instinct over Mycroft's cheeks; finding only bare skin visibly deepens his confusion.

He then spots Mycroft's wrist, still lying by the side of his head.

_"Myc - "_

Shocked, Greg reaches to touch the marks. His hand forms the shape of them without conscious thought, the same way he'd test the purple shadows around the throat of a strangulation victim. His fingers try to find where fingers laid.

"Myc, what - "

 

*

 

The bed shifts, and Mycroft relaxes- Greg is going to acquire the lube, and then they’ll just have each other, perfectly united in desire.

But there is a pause, and Mycroft’s eyes flutter open as Greg speaks. He tracks the gaze as it grows confused, following-

_Oh- no, darling, don’t-_

“Just an out-of-hand argument, love.” He forces his voice to stabilize, evening his breathing so he’s not still panting, even with an achingly hard cock.

_Damn you, Sherlock._

“Nothing serious, only a moment of lost temper someone will be paying for later.”

He lifts his other hand, lets his fingers stroke through Greg’s hair, trying to soothe.

“It’s fine, love, I promise.”

 

*

 

"An argument?"

Greg searches Mycroft's face. For once, the fingers through his hair do little to soothe him.

"Mycroft, that's assault. Who the hell has grabbed you like that?"

He reaches for Mycroft's arm, the urgency of passion transforming quickly into urgency of another kind. He wants to see the marks.

"That's _restraint,"_ he says, distressed. "What - what did you mean by 'indisposed'? What the hell happened today?"

 

*

 

Mycroft bites back a pained hiss. No- Gregory musn’t see that it does hurt, he’s worried enough as it is. _Hide it. Pain is weakness, Mycroft, and you must be strong for him._

“Just an argument, love. I lost my temper first- shouted- he retaliated more… physically. It was brief. I assure you I found appropriate medical care.”

He keeps stroking his finger along Greg’s cheek as though it can fix things.

_Please. Please, my love, leave it. Let me tend to you instead._

“It’s not- it’s not really assault, love, I promise you. It’s been dealt with.”

 

*

 

"'Dealt with'," Greg says, lost. He doesn't seem to feel the fingers across his cheek at all. _"I_ shouted at someone today. If she'd retaliated like _that,_ she'd never step foot in my division again. It doesn't matter if you lost your temper. There's a line."

The skin around his eyes contracts; he's trying to understand. It doesn't make sense.

"Why're you downplaying this?" he says. "Does Anthea know? Why's she not burned someone alive for grabbing you like that?" His jaw sets. "Is this a person you see regularly?"

 

*

 

“Not- regularly. And yes, she assisted with proper application of cosmetics.”

He frowns, dropping his head back, his other hand falls beside it. It feels like a failure, drawing Greg back into emotional turmoil when they had been so close to moving past Stringer.

_Perhaps there is a rehabilitation center in the middle of a desert that could be useful. Or halfway up the Himalayas._

Anywhere that will keep Sherlock’s interference from being felt in his relationship.

“There are people, Gregory, that I cannot and will not bring conventional charges against. You understand that, don’t you? Persons who, for one reason or another, must be handled differently. Please, will you- will you trust that I am handling it?”

A sigh escapes him.

“Anthea will do any required burning when she is authorized to do so.”

 

*

 

"Cosmetics," Greg says, his gaze aching. "So you could hide it."

His expressions works, trying to hold something back. He manages to keep it in for a no more than a second or two.

"Look, I - I get that I don't understand a fraction of what you do. I get that there's stuff I can't ever expect from you. I get that there's stuff I can't ever ask you for, and I can either suck it up or ship out. But - are you seriously telling me you're going to come home trying to hide bruises, and _I'm_ the bad guy for not trusting you? Is that part of the deal now?"

He stares into Mycroft's eyes, his cheeks turning pale.

"Those are restraint bruises," he says. "I'm a police officer. I _care_ about you. Why - why is it _unreasonable_ of me to - "

He stops.

His eyes shutter. They close, and he breathes in.

The distress hardens in his face.

"Sure," he says, quietly. He lifts himself off Mycroft. "It's - work. Not my business. I couldn't understand."

He gets off the bed, bends and retrieves his shirt from the floor, visibly shaking.

 

*

 

“To hide it from _work,_ Gregory, not-”

His mouth closes.

_Liar._

Christ. What is he doing. Gregory was absolutely in his mind when he covered those marks over, wondering how he was going to hide this in the shower until they were healed enough not to look so intentional.

_You promised you wouldn’t lie. Not to him._

_But there is no other choice, not when he’d arrest Sherlock. He said it, didn’t he? It’s assault. Assault is prison time._

Sherlock would die in prison, self-inflicted after months of boredom if he did not goad someone else into managing it for him first.

Mycroft sits up, lacking the energy to do anything but lean against the pillows, feeling a bit hollow.

“You are not bad or unreasonable, Gregory. I simply… did not wish to worry you. I am sorry that it came off otherwise.”

 

*

 

Greg turns at once, drawing in a breath. His lungs fill to say something and his mouth forms the first shape of it, pain flashing through his eyes.

He stops himself once again.

He drags it all back, and crushes it down. His face hardens with calm.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "You know what you're doing. I don't."

He fastens a single button of his shirt, takes his boxers from the floor and pulls them on.

"M'going to finish my duty rotas," he says, and picks up his trousers. "Should've stayed at work to do them."

He heads towards the door.

 

*

 

“Gregory-”

Mycroft’s heart cracks when the door closes. He lets it, quietly broken, slowly steeling himself so he can manage the basics. Get up. Put on a robe.

He can salvage anything, can’t he?

It’s his job.

He walks downstairs, finding Greg on the couch, but he cannot bring himself to approach. What should he do? Beg? It feels disingenuous somehow, to throw himself at Gregory for forgiveness when he cannot even admit to what he’s actually _done_ in keeping Sherlock out of his view. Lying about him, even if primarily by omission.

He won’t make it worse by compounding it.

_Stiff upper lip, Mycroft. We don’t show weakness._

“Tea, Gregory?”

There’s no response. He makes a cup anyway, brings it to Gregory, puts it beside him without saying anything else. The blanket’s already drawn over his legs, his laptop over it, Marmalade beside him with her chin resting on his thigh.

It’s what he does when he works in bed.

_He’ll sleep down here._

The realization hurts more than he’s expecting, but he buries it, as he buries everything else.

Instead he moves Marmalade’s toy monkey beside them, comforting himself with the quiet _brrp_ of purring pleasure in response.

Upstairs, he focuses on tasks. Tasks are manageable. The sheet and pillowcase marred with makeup are stripped and added to the laundry. He removes the rest with water hot enough to scald, ignoring the pain. He can’t quite feel it anyway.

His heart hurts far more.

When he is out of tasks, he opens the heaviest door in the room and vanishes into darkness and silence.

The door that closes behind him could keep out bombs.

No one’s ever asked what it keeps in.


	14. Chapter 14

Greg wakes to two firm spots of pressure against his collarbones, muffled through the blanket. His neck aches from the inadequate cushion and the restricting arm of the sofa; he's barely slept. His eyes are still hot and sore.

Recognising the weight upon his chest, and the source of the two spots of pressure, he groans.

"Marmalade," he mumbles. He stirs, trying to settle her to one side. "Ow, princess."

Marmalade remains exactly where she is, shifting her stance to press harder against his collarbones.  _ "Brrrrp?" _

"Yeah, darlin'... m'awake..." Eyes still closed, Greg lifts a weary hand to rub her head. "Lie down, princess. You're hurtin' me."

Marmalade ignores the tickling behind her ear.  _ "Brrrrrp." _

Greg inhales. He wishes he didn't understand perfectly.

"S'complicated," he mumbles. "It's okay. You can go cuddle with Myc for a while if you want, I won't be upset..."

There's no response from beyond his closed eyes. He can feel her staring at him; he doesn't need to see her round green gaze to hear the silent command.  _ Bedtime. Upstairs, please. _

He tries rubbing under her chin; she ignores him, squirming, and shifts to try her paws directly on his solar plexus. Greg gasps, all his breath expelled.

"Marmalade - " He pulls himself up a little, reaching for her. "C'mere. Settle down and cuddle."

Marmalade resists his gathering arms. She mewls, annoyed, and wriggles her way out of his hold. Greg sighs, lying back down. She stations herself on the arm of the sofa by his head, staring down at him like a small domestic gargoyle, the expression more intent than anything Greg's ever received.

Greg looks back at her, feeling his chest tighten.

"Look," he says, quietly. "I know it probably doesn't make sense to you. It's - human things, darlin'. M'upset so I have to sleep down here."

Marmalade waits, unmoving.

"And Mycroft is upset with me," Greg adds. "He's - annoyed. I keep sticking my nose into his work." He feels his stomach harden; putting it into words hurts. "M'too stupid to understand. It's not my business to worry when he's injured."

If Marmalade had eyebrows to raise, she'd be raising them. He knows it.

He exhales, watching her in the darkness.

"And I - found out more human things yesterday. They made me sad. Mycroft's been busy lately with meetings, so he couldn't come to make me feel better." Greg hesitates, his heart aching. "I - needed him."

_ "Brrrrrp." _

"S'my fault, darlin'. I want more than Mycroft can give me." He reaches up in the darkness, tentatively; she leans at last into his gentle chin tickle. "And that hurts, princess... but I can't really tell Mycroft. I'll only annoy him more. And he warned me it would be like this."

She licks his palm, gently. 

"See?" he murmurs. He strokes back one of her ears. "I told you it was complicated."

Marmalade trills, unconvinced, and slips down from the arm of the sofa. She pads across onto his chest again, resuming her previous stance. Her paws go back onto his collarbones.

He winces, trying to arrange himself in a way it doesn't hurt as much.

"No, baby girl. I know you want me to, but I can't."

_ "Mrrrow?" _

"Well - until we sort it out."

Marmalade waits.

Greg puts his hands over his face, breathing into them. "Marmalade, I haven't slept. You're not helping."

He can still feel her eyes boring into him.

_ Bedtime.  _

_ Upstairs now. Bed. Cuddles. _

_ Both of you. _

Greg remembers like it was yesterday. He can still see the look she gave him across the café all those months ago, standing by the coffee table with her tail held high.  _ Come here please.  _ She'd already arranged one of her humans on the sofa - her posh boy in his suit with his book. Now all she needed was the other one to come sit down next to him, close enough so they could both give her fuss, and everything would be perfect.

Her plan has never altered - just grown in scale. Slowly, day-by-day, she's coaxed Greg and all his property across the city, here to sit next to her posh boy in his suit with his books every night. It's a wonder she's not started leading Greg to jewellery shops, then over to the counter with the engagement rings, then over to the till with his wallet to pay.

_ Not been hard for her, _ Greg thinks. Just putting them physically near each other did the trick. The rest just... opened around them.

A small twinge of pain crosses his chest, nothing to do with Marmalade's paws. This is the same feeling he had yesterday, before it all got out of hand.  _ If I can just see you, it'll be alright. Even just hear your voice. Ten minutes to remind me you exist and you're in love with me and that means there's nothing worth worrying about in the world. _

Alone on the sofa, Greg closes his eyes. 

_ But those bruises are how you hold someone down. _

If he'd found those marks on a body, he'd know they were pinned to something for some time. He'd be looking for a killer with physical strength and prone to violence.  _ Who the fuck held you down, darlin'? You work in an office. You do trade deals and meetings with politicians. If someone grabbed you like that, where were security?  _

Greg supposes, with a strange flicker in the back of his heart, that Mycroft never specified it happened at work.

_ What else would you be doing in the middle of the day? And who would grab you like that? _

He can't stop seeing the bruises.

Then he realises that he'll have to. 

There aren't any other options here. He can't bring it up again -  _ 'will you please just trust me?'  _ is a hell of a warning, and it means the conversation is now closed. It's done. If Greg wants to be a part of Mycroft's life, unexplained bruising is now part of the list of things he'll have to put up with. Late nights and cancelled plans are already on it - along with days where Greg can need Mycroft as much as he wants, it's not happening. 

It feels like the list has been growing lately. Mycroft's been busier; his reasons have become more vague. Something's changed in the last month or so, and it's taken Mycroft a step away from Greg. 

_ Could be terrorists,  _ Greg thinks, guilt twisting his stomach.  _ Could be anything. I don't have a clue. He could be holding the country together... then he gets home to me acting like a jealous wife, insecure as hell and asking him questions I know he can't answer. _

_ Jesus, why do I keep doing this to him? _

Mycroft is the best thing that's happened in Greg's life, and he just keeps dragging his eyes from the good to the bad. Whatever Mycroft's handling at the moment, it could make Karen and Ryan Stringer's crap look as harrowing as an episode of  _ Friends.  _

_ Maybe speak to someone,  _ Greg thinks, numbly, still staring into his palms.  _ Go through work. See if... I mean, that poster in the break room's been there for years... counselling.  _

_ Talk to someone. _

He'll ring them when he gets a minute this week. He'll try and set something up. Mycroft doesn't even have to know about it. Greg can quietly sort himself out, settle into being the kind of secure and easy person Mycroft needs at home, and he can stop blowing up over nothing.

For tonight, he can't do much about getting help.

He can stop his histrionics, though. He can make the first move to bury this thing and move past it.

Greg shifts as he sits up, drawing Marmalade into his arms. She finally allows him to gather her close. She chirps a little as he carries her from the room, nuzzling against his chest; she begins to purr as they ascend the stairs.  _ Yes. Bedtime, now. No more nonsense please. _

It's dark and perfectly silent inside the bedroom. Greg slips through the door, trying desperately not to wake Mycroft.  _ He had a hard day,  _ he thinks, with a fresh stab of guilt.  _ He had a day where someone grabbed him and hurt him, and all I could do was get angry and suspicious.  _

He places Marmalade gently on the bed. She trills, pleased at last, and pads across to Mycroft's feet to make herself a nest somewhere near them. 

As Greg slides himself beneath the covers, he holds his breath. Nervously, carefully, he shifts as close as he dares. He wants to spoon into Mycroft's back and hold him more than anything in the world, but he doesn't know if cuddling levels of affection have yet been restored.  _ I fucked up. I fucked up big time. Again. _

He hesitates, placing a gentle hand on Mycroft's back.

_ I love you,  _ he thinks.  _ I love you and m'sorry. I'll make it okay. I'll get help and I'll be what you need me to be, I promise.  _

_ I won't keep doing this to you. _

 

*

 

Mycroft is, in fact, perfectly awake by the time Greg creeps into the room, lying frozen and still on his side of the bed, facing the window. He doubts Greg will notice that the sheets are still cool and unwarmed by a human body. 

_ But if he does I’m sure that will be upsetting too. _

He’d only left the panic room about a half hour ago, after his mind began to rant that if Gregory came up and found the bed  _ empty _ that would also be some sort of error, a failing as a partner.

_ You said you would be there for whatever he needs, not hiding in a panic room. _

Some part of him has known since the beginning that he does not deserve a lover like Gregory. Not one so kind and forgiving. Not when Mycroft is rarely, if ever, truly deserving of forgiveness, despite what the sole spot of warmth on his back where Gregory’s hand lingers might tell him.

Marmalade’s mild weight steps up the covers until she’s at his face. She sniffs his nose. He lifts a brow at her and she  _ mrrps _ back.

_ Fix it. _

She cannot possibly be giving him  _ relationship advice, _ after all she is a cat, she’s probably simply trying to figure out why her usual amount of space on the bed is reduced by the spread-out humans, but it certainly feels as though she’s asking him to quit wallowing. 

He exhales and rolls to face his partner. “Hello, Gregory.”

 

*

 

_ Oh god.  _

Greg's not sure he's ready for this conversation. He wouldn't have been any more ready by dawn, though. If he'd now had a week to lie awake and prepare his apology, he still wouldn't have managed it. He's not even sure where to begin in making this right.

He looks into Mycroft's eyes - the eyes of the man he loves - and realises it's a miracle they ever came to rest on him. At the lowest point in his life, the most perfect person appeared. 

Then a cat made them sit together, and somehow Greg has scraped through all this way.

_ I can't have all of you.  _

It hurts; nothing will ever change that.

_ It'd hurt a whole lot more having none of you. _

Greg breathes in, hoping his tears aren't as visible as they feel. This is about showing he's sorry, not begging for the comfort and reassurance he wants.

"I love you," he whispers.  _ Love, first. Always that first.  _ "I - don't even know how to tell you how much I love you. Makes me forget sometimes you're not - n-not just some ordinary person - can't just puff out my chest and go punch someone for hurting you. Like I have a clue what your life involves."

A tear wells up enough to escape. It feels more obvious to wipe it away than just to let it go. Greg breathes in and carries on, trying to hide it somehow with his voice - trying to show he knows this isn't about him, his whimpering heart.

"It's - m-more love than I've felt for someone else," he says, "and I've not been with someone important like you." It's killing him to say this calmly. He wants to sob it into Mycroft's chest, high-pitched and incoherent. "And m'trying to channel it, and I'm learning - a-and I fuck up sometimes. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'll get it together, I swear."

 

*

 

“Gregory….”

Mycroft fights to keep his voice from breaking.  _ How. How can he be so… self-deprecating. Assuming that he is the problem.  _

He knows, really. She did this to him. Conditioned him, over years. He doesn’t even think he’s allowed to be angry. Mycroft must be strong for him. To show him the truth.

_ No, sweetheart. This is my fault, not yours. You should be angry. _

“You aren’t ‘fucking up’. You don’t need to apologize. I love you. I want to tell you everything, I do. All the time. But that is just work. Everything that matters is already here. With you.” 

He reaches out his hand tentatively, sets it next to Greg’s, just close enough for warm skin to brush together. A part of him pangs- Sherlock is not, per se,  _ work.  _ But he’s close enough.

“You are allowed to be unhappy when I must keep something from you, love. The fact that it  _ must _ happen does not mean you must be content with it. But I  _ will _ tell you everything that I can. And when I cannot, I will do everything to make it up to you in other ways.”

He flexes his fingers, runs their knuckles together softly. 

“I love you. Coming home to you makes having a home worth it. It never was before- and you have changed that, Gregory. Just you. As you are. ”

 

*

 

_ Fuck. _

_ Fuck, fuck.  _

Greg can't stay distant across the bed anymore. He doesn't want to just brush hands - he wants to hug, properly, like they should have done hours ago.

He pushes closer, shaking, and his arm finds it way around Mycroft's waist. He reaches up to get rid of as many tears as he can, not wanting to dampen Mycroft's neck and his jaw with crying. It's so good to touch. It feels at once like everything will be alright, like all the fuss over work and Karen are nothing. 

_ Holy shit, I need you.  _

_ I need you or I won't be okay. I can't ever lose you. _

As his fingers stroke through the back of Mycroft's hair, and he tries to keep his breathing under control, Greg turns his face into his partner's neck.

"I love you. I l-love you, I mean it. I want to need you. I want to need you like I need air."

His heart cracks; his hands tighten with distress on Mycroft's back.

_ "F-Fuck. _ I just want the world to leave us alone, Myc. I just - just  _ you, _ it's just you, it's always been just you - since I saw you, since you spoke to me - since I knew you existed, it's been you. I just want you."

 

*

 

“I know. I know, love. You have me.”

He wraps his arms about Gregory, holding him. Loving him. His heart  _ hurts.  _ But he cannot break. Not when Gregory needs him. Here, he must be strong.

“We’ll go, soon. Go out to the lake house. I will not look at my phone for a week. You will have the entirety of my attention. No one shall have me but you.”

His head tips down, gently kissing along Gregory’s hair.  _ Mine. Mine, and I won’t let you feel such pain again.  _ His body shifts closer, pressing as much warmth together as he can.  _ I’m right here, love. Just for you. Only for you. _

“I’ll give you everything I can, my love. Everything. Anything that will make you happy.”  _ Please. Let me.  _ “I love you. What can I do to show you, beautiful?”

 

*

 

Greg nestles into the wrap of Mycroft's arms, the wrap of his voice, drawing his lover's words as deeply beneath his skin as he can. With each one he feels comfort smoothing over the cracks, sealing the pain and settling it into silence. They couldn't possibly be any closer together than they are now; it feels like they're a single form.

"Take me to the lake house," he whispers. His throat works; the plea leaves him before he can stop it. "T-Turn your phone off for me. Just for a while. Oh god, I'm sorry - I'm really sorry - I know I can't be like this. I know you don't need this."

His hands bury themselves in the back of Mycroft's pyjamas, holding tight.

"Don't let it push you away from me. Whatever it is lately. I know you can't tell me. I know I'm just one person and it's important. Just - p-please - I love you so much. I'll love you as long as you'll let me. You don't understand what I'd be for you."

 

*

 

“You are my everything, love. I’ll be here. I will do better for you.”

His hands slide under Greg’s shirt- he needs to touch skin, to merge their bond that much closer. To ground them both in each other. 

“We’ll go to the reception. I’ll introduce you to some people. People I work with.” He smiles wryly into Gregory’s hair. “You shall see a bit of what I am dealing with.”

“And when the conference is done, we’ll go off together, and no one shall be able to stop me from sweeping you into a car and running away for a week. Two weeks, even.”

Their breath syncs, blood pumping in unison. They may as well be sharing veins.

“I love you, Gregory.”

 

*

 

_ Two weeks.  _

It doesn’t seem real. Part of Greg will believe it when he sees it, and he hates himself for thinking that - it’s just so easy to be hesitant. Two weeks alone with Mycroft would be the happiest two weeks of his life. 

He doesn’t want to get excited and cling onto it, if there’s a chance it won’t be possible in the end. 

The thought alone makes his heart beat harder, though. He breathes in slowly, shivering, and presses his lips to the corner of Mycroft’s jaw. 

“I love you too,” he murmurs. He takes the hands beneath his shirt as an invitation of the same, reaching gently beneath Mycroft’s hem and stroking his back with long settling sweeps.  _ Mine, sweetheart. My gorgeous boyfriend.  _ “I’m sorry this all happened. I mean it. H-Honestly it was hard to stop thinking about... y’know - and when I saw you were hurt, I just...”

He exhales, laying another kiss against the crook of Mycroft’s neck. 

“I got fetched upstairs to say sorry,” he says, with a tentative smile. “Don’t think Marmalade was impressed by this ‘sleeping on the couch’ idea.”

 

*

 

“Mmm, likely not.” Marmalade has curled up somewhere behind Mycroft’s knees- likely for warmth, but it feels like an incentive for him to stay facing his lover.

“I am certain one of us would ended up with a 3am paw to the face, reminding us that we are interfering with her preferred bed conditions.”

He nuzzles closer, brushing his cheek against Greg’s and parting his lips, gently kissing where stubble has crept in. This is better. This is right. Both of them in bed together and planning for the future- trips together. Time alone. Time when they are both safe from jobs and vindictive exes and aggravating brothers.

“If it makes you feel any better, the individual I quarrelled with will  _ not _ be at the reception. Otherwise I imagine you and Anthea would be flipping a coin for the privilege of making your displeasure known.”

He kisses his partner’s temple, feeling so fond it’s almost painful.

“I am sorry for not telling you immediately. I should have. I am… used to secrets, my love. You deserve better from me.”

 

*

 

_ No wonder you hide things, if I keep flying off the handle. _

Greg runs both hands quietly down Mycroft's back, just feeling the warmth and closeness of his skin. It's reassuring to feel Mycroft's sheer physical  _ here- _ ness, so close nothing could find its way between them. 

_ You're used to keeping secrets. I'm used to getting hurt by them. _

He'll ring the counselling service tomorrow. Maybe the key to this balancing act will just be talking to another person about it. God knows his stock of friends is still low - right now the only person he can share his worries about Mycroft with is Mycroft, and he's not used to being allowed to bring those to someone. He feels like Mycroft shouldn't have to bear that weight.

Aware he's slipping into his thoughts again, closing himself off, Greg draws his focus back to Mycroft's skin - right here, right now. It's two AM and nobody in the world knows they're awake together.

He tightens his arms, nuzzling into Mycroft's neck.

_ Everything'll be fine.  _

"We just need time together," he murmurs. "S'all. We've been trying to get away for ages now. There was all the fuss with the Fenton trial... we need a break."

He smiles a little, skimming his fingertips gently along Mycroft's side.

"Work are begging me to use some of my annual leave," he says, tilting his head to press their foreheads together. Their noses rub. "Otherwise I'll have to take it all at once and piss off for March."

 

*

 

“We’ll go. I have not taken my annual leave for years,  I imagine I have quite a bit in reserve.” Mycroft smiles, the span of a breath away from Greg’s lips. “If you must ‘piss off’ I shall join you.”

Perhaps not just to the lake house. Perhaps… out of the country entirely. Somewhere he cannot possibly be asked to intercede in politics, or spycraft, or the petty games of CEOs. Bali or Bora Bora. Maybe New Zealand and the full tour of the Hobbit filming locations. 

Anywhere, really, that they can escape to.

“I love you.” He kisses Greg softly. “I want to be anywhere you are.”

He’ll do better. Sherlock will get mostly sober at some point, he has cycles with his drug use, Mycroft can introduce him then. Get Greg’s clearance a bit higher so he can discuss more at home. 

He nuzzles his nose against Greg’s, running his hands in tender lines up and down his lover’s back.

_ I shall do better. I shall. _

“I only want you, Gregory. Just you. Anywhere with you.”

 

*

 

_ God. _

Greg eases his fingers into Mycroft's hair, shivering with the rush of love the words evoke.  _ Jesus, how can I ever doubt you? How can I ever worry about you? _

_ Just need to spend our lives right here in bed. Safe and sound. Nobody else to cause us grief. _

Gently he presses his lips to Mycroft's, leaning into his lover's body. The hands up and down his back feel so soothing it's hard to remember he was ever distressed. As they kiss, he strokes through Mycroft's hair and tries to make each caress say,  _ I'm sorry, forgive me, I love you.  _

Stirring, he tangles their legs gently beneath the sheets. He wraps one foot around Mycroft's calf, brushing his toes slowly up to his knee.

The disturbance causes a small  _ 'brrrrrp'  _ to come from behind Mycroft's knees. Greg smiles into the kiss. He feels Marmalade uncurl with a stretch, pressing her paws against the legs moving beneath the covers.

"Think we're being given a hint," he murmurs, gently dotting his partner's mouth with kisses.

 

*

 

“Is it a hint to stop disturbing her grace’s rest, for we are but humble peasants?”

He meets Greg’s kisses, smiling back, channeling love into every gesture.  _ We are foolish, aren’t we. But loving fools.  _ His hand drifts instinctually to Greg’s hip, tracing the bone there, but he pauses, stilling the urge stroke lower as he normally would.

“I suppose she is not quite wrong. We should sleep.” Every word is spoken so close that his lips brush Greg’s skin. “Both our places of employ might take some offense if we vanished tomorrow without a word.”

That said, if he was not already beholden to those few powers that supercede him to allocate his particular skills to the trade conference, he would be on the phone ensuring Gregory’s leave and acquiring plane tickets within seconds.

_ I shall take you far away from here, and not a single soul will bother us. _

“Are you settled enough to sleep, love?”

 

*

 

"Only if you are," Greg murmurs, meaning it. He'd rather stay awake all night just gently kissing, than go off to sleep leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts. As he brushes his thumb along Mycroft's cheekbone, he smiles. "S'pose if we sleep now, we can still get up on time. Have breakfast together, maybe... a bath. Spend a little while together."

His gaze trails Mycroft's face, as gentle as early morning rain.

"D'you - know how beautiful you look, when you're like this?" he asks. "Just in bed with me. Just as you were made. Do I tell you often enough?" 

_ Nowhere near,  _ he thinks.  _ Should tell you every night. Tell you twice.  _

He cups Mycroft's face, feeling his heart pull in his chest.

"You... look like this could be the last thing I see, darlin'. And that'd be okay." 

 

*

 

_ “The last thing I see.” _

_ Does he… mean it? _

Mycroft feels his heart shifting uncomfortably in his chest, expanding like an animal uncurling from hibernation. His hands curl into the softness of Greg’s skin.

_ Forever. He means forever. Whatever forever is for us. _

Even with the sort of love and trust he’s had… it’s hard to see permanence when in every other instance that sort of union has never been in the cards.

His throat thickens, and he has to swallow to keep the feeling in. He is British, after all, he cannot simply expend his sudden rush of feelings. 

“You’re a romantic, Gregory,” Mycroft says softly, shyly, eyes glittering in the strands of moonlight that have escaped the clouds. It’s still amazing to him that Gregory will simply  _ say  _ things like this, full of love and honesty, particularly with everything he’s been through.

“But you’re right. It would be… okay.”

 

*

 

Greg smiles - a gentle lift of half his mouth. It warms his eyes right from their depths.

"I love you," he murmurs, and gathers Mycroft close to his shoulder.  _ Sleep now. Hit the reset button... we'll start again in the morning, and I'll be better for you. Try harder for you.  _ He runs his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "You make me happy, darlin'. I don't know what I'd do without you."

One last quiet kiss, laid on Mycroft's forehead like a promise.

"Sleep tight. I'll miss you while I'm dreaming."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we start to see the consequences of prior poor decisions....

The week is getting better.

Greg eases through Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with little to occupy his thoughts except the reception on Friday. He has a final fitting on Thursday afternoon for his swanky suit, which Mycroft assures him definitely looks the part. It's amazing what proper tailoring will do - something which looks this sharp really shouldn't feel comfy. It's easy to move in, too. A touch of cologne and he'll be good to go.

Their suits hang together on the wardrobe doors when they go to bed on Thursday night. 

Greg has the same quiet feeling of excitement looking at them as he did looking at empty Christmas stockings when he was a kid. He's trying to dampen his anticipation a little - there's a good chance he'll be spoken down to by all the other guests, or even ignored entirely.  _ Mycroft Holmes's bit of rough.  _

In his heart, though, he knows it doesn't matter what the other guests think of him.

What matters is Mycroft wants him there. He'll walk into that room just as welcome as any other delegate's partner, and they'll go home together afterwards. In future, people might ask Mycroft how Greg is. He'll be half of a couple - with the man who turned his life around.

He doesn't know why it seems like a milestone of commitment, but it does.

As he nestles close to Mycroft in their afterglow, laying his head on his partner's chest, Greg's eyes fall on the wardrobe at the foot of the bed - their suits, side-by-side - and he remembers dimly the vicious stranger he met a few weeks ago. 

_ 'And not bored of you yet. How novel. He will be, eventually.' _

The memory makes Greg smile. A prophecy like that would have struck terror into him, once. He'd have shattered like brittle glass; doubt and fear would have left him in fragments.

All it raises up is pity for the guy, and there's one good reason.

_ My rock,  _ he thinks, as listens to the thump of Mycroft's heart, slowing after climax.  _ My whole world.  _ This time tomorrow, they'll be at the reception together. He'll have heard Mycroft say the words,  _ 'my partner, Gregory,'  _ to various people of importance.

As they settle to sleep, Greg finds a quiet thought nuzzling against his heart. 

It has comes to him, like a familiar stray animal, for several nights now. It only seems to appear just as he's falling asleep. These quiet final minutes of the day are the only time it seems safe for the thought to draw near, curl close to him and warm itself somewhere in his chest. Greg can't bring himself to chase it away.

_ 'My husband, Gregory.' _

Someday.

_ Only been together six months.  _ He wouldn't dare to mention it, not this soon - doesn't dare even think about it in the daytime, or think about it too loudly near to Mycroft, in case he somehow hears it. The last thing Greg wants is an awkward conversation about tempering his natural inclination to commitment. It's amazing, really, that they're even living together at this early stage, and he should be happy with that.

But it's going so well that it's hard not to dream.

_ Greg Holmes.  _

_ Holmes-Lestrade. Greg and Mycroft.  _

Trialling it in his mind as a concept, he feels like a fifteen-year-old girl doodling it in gold pen on her pencil case, surrounding it with hearts and flowers. It's not like that - it's so much quieter and more fragile than that. It's such a small and faint and perfect little hope that Greg can't even bring himself to look at it for long, unless it decides to flee from him and never come back.

He thinks about it in these moments, though. He wonders if these days of their lives will be remembered as _ 'before we were married'.  _ He'd be happy forever, if they were. He can't deny that. He can't pretend for a second that he wouldn't be glad to spend his life with Mycroft - and that the alternative possibility, separation some day, hurts him to the point of almost paralysing distress. He doesn't understand how life could ever continue after Mycroft.

After Karen, there came relief at the quietness of it all. Life was simple and small, safe and lonely.

There wouldn't be relief after Mycroft. 

There would just be nothing - and something in Greg's heart already knows that. Somewhere, deep down, he's already made his choice. He knows on some level it's a waiting game now, letting things grow, hoping someday there'll be a right time to talk and make choices together.

Tomorrow night feels like a tiny piece of that. 

If it goes well - if he fits into Mycroft's world as a suitable partner, happy and at ease - then maybe if Mycroft ever turns his thoughts to the future, certain things will be easier for him to imagine.

As Greg drifts off to sleep, breathing gently against his lover's neck, he tells himself it's okay to be open to these thoughts. It's a good sign. It's proof that - no matter what Karen put him through - he never gave up on love.

The next thing he knows is the shrill ringing of his phone.

As he rolls over and reaches for it, lurching into consciousness, Greg registers that the bedroom around them is dark. Marmalade is still nestled between them. It's the middle of the night still; something is wrong.

Unplugging his phone from its charging cable, he registers with a glance that work are calling - and it's nearly three AM.

_ Oh Jesus. _

He tries to keep his voice low as he answers, trying not to disturb Mycroft any more than the ringtone has. 

"Lestrade," he says, feeling Marmalade stretch and press her paws into his back. 

There come a few moments of silence in the bedroom as control explain, as succinctly as they can, what the matter is.

"Holy hell," Greg breathes into the phone. "You're not serious. When did they realise he's missing?"

The control room explain that Danny Fenton was in his prison cell during the security check at midnight. He'd been complaining of stomach issues and nausea for a few days, and told the night guard he'd thrown up several times. His clothes were soiled; he didn't look well. The night guard took him to the showers to get clean, then made the mistake of leaving him unwatched for thirty seconds in order to call the medical team. 

Danny Fenton has now vanished. 

The prison has been searched. He's gone.

They need to know where he'd try and take refuge - who might shelter him - where he'll be headed. Nobody knows the Fentons better than Greg. They need to find Danny  _ now, _ before he goes to ground. He's already had several hours' headstart.

"Tell them I'm on my way," Greg says, pushing back the covers and getting out of bed, already wide-awake. "Can you ring DS Donovan for me? She knows him as well as I do. Tell her I'm on my way to her flat."

As he hurries into his work clothes, buttoning his shirt one-handed, Greg gets a few final details from control and asks them to send street teams out to the homes of Danny's known associates. If they're lucky, his escape plan only took him as far as the prison gates and he'll now be improvising. 

If they're not, and he had outside help, they've got a far harder task on their hands.

By the time he hangs up, Greg is dressed and almost ready to go.

He moves over to the bed in the darkness.

"One of the Fentons has absconded," he explains, leaning low over Mycroft and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Danny. The one who shouted at me in court. Need to get on his tail before he finds himself somewhere to hide. I love you, darlin'."

 

*

 

In truth, Mycroft had snapped awake the moment the ringtone went off, he’s simply had enough practice at sleeping odd hours that he does not move until he’s ascertained what exactly is happening.

It’s likely not a good idea to tell his partner, however, that he’s unconsciously just employed techniques learned in case of abduction to keep his breathing quiet and even while he talks into the phone.

By the time Greg is getting his clothes on, however, Mycroft has rolled over, making his awareness clear. He grasps Greg’s hand, squeezing briefly. He cannot hold Greg back from work, not when Greg has been so generous in allotting his own eccentric hours. “You shall find him. Be safe, please.”

When Greg is out the door and the room is quiet and dark, he realizes that it’s far more silent and colder than he’d remembered.

_ I am used to him. His presence. _

Greg’s warm spot vacated, Marmalade strides up and flops down just in front of his pillow, resting her little chin there with a sleepy huff. 

“I know, it isn’t me scampering off in the middle of the night for once, hm?” He runs a hand over her fur, earning a quiet trill. 

His mind alert, he reaches for his phone and sets a passive watch amongst his team for Danny Fenton. He does not think Greg would approve if Mycroft attempted to find the man  _ for _ him- nor would Edwin and Smallwood approve of the expense- but he can flag Fenton in case anyone happens to notice him incidentally in their review of other footage. 

He gazes at the suits on the wardrobe doors, dim in the scattered moonlight. If he is very, very, lucky, they will both be in those suits by evening, and Greg can regale some of the few humans in the Defense Ministry who do not try Mycroft’s patience with the tale of catching Danny Fenton.

_ If this were six months ago, I would simply expect disappointment. _

He would be certain Greg would be detained at work, or worse, injured. It is his job, after all, to assume the worst at all times. It has only been since Greg has entered his life that he has allowed himself to  _ hope _ things will go well when not relying on his own intervention to ensure it. 

_ This time, perhaps, we’ll both be lucky. _

He won’t be able to fall back asleep, but he can spend an indulgent half hour or so simply laying here stroking the cat in the dark before he gets up and faces his own challenges of the day. There’s something about letting Greg go off to do the more dangerous parts of his job that feels… worrying.

_ Don’t be silly. He’ll be fine. _

_ Come back to me swiftly, my love. _

 

*

 

Within an hour, Greg has taken full command of the search for Danny Fenton. Several parts of London are on lockdown; covert surveillance teams are watching every address occupied by every blood relative or close friend the Fentons have ever had. Sally has dragged several more of their team out of bed and she's got the office running like a war machine. 

If anyone resents it, they're not showing it. 

Every additional hour Danny stays at large is another hour for him to disappear completely. If  _ that _ happens, he'll only reappear at a point of his choosing - and it won't be for anything good.

Greg's started contacting other major cities where Danny might have friends or contacts, and the British Transport Police are looking out for him. They've got vehicles being traced. They've got street teams out. They've got CCTV coming in from every camera they can trace around the prison, and things are moving so quickly that the lack of progress doesn't seem to matter. 

Greg hardly notices the change from darkness to light. He doesn't notice the large coffees Sally keeps bringing him, drinking them without tasting them while they're still scalding. At some point a McMuffin wrapper appears on his desk that he can't remember eating. Everytime a team finishes a search and finds nothing, Greg's ready to send them somewhere else. Each new location could be the right one. Now it's light, he starts sending people round to wake up Danny's friends and family - see if any of them are looking shifty, or have a prison jumpsuit stuffed in their recycling bin. It's only a matter of time. 

When Sally comes striding into Greg's office holding a phone, and throws his coat at him, he's wired enough to catch it.

"Crack den in Lambeth," she says. "Think we've got him on CCTV three streets away. If it's not him, it's someone who looks a lot like him. Same place he was arrested two years ago, and there's a bus route near the prison could've got him there."

"Jesus." Greg pulls on his coat as he moves to the door. "Right. Have we got back-up?"

"We've got the lot." 

"Okay. Good. Let's go."

 

*

 

Mycroft gets the first call in the car. Somehow Anthea is already in the office- he’s beginning to suspect she has been covering more for him than anticipated for the conference, though she is as impervious as he is to petty human needs like sleep.

“Sir? We have a problem.”

He sighs. “Elaborate.”

“Your brother has been picked up on surveillance in Lambeth. It’s- well, it’s the sort of house he frequents, sir.”

Mycroft sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll pull him. Send me the address.”

“Sir- that’s not all. You requested a surveillance flag on a Daniel Fenton, escaped convict?”

“Yes.”  _ Unexpected. Not good.  _

“He’s been seen in the same area. We’ve a short head start on the police surveillance, but-”

“They’ll be on their way as well.”

_ Shit. Shit.  _

He can’t leave his brother in whatever den of iniquity he’s found this time until the police show up- not if they might suspect anyone present of harboring a fugitive. Sherlock would mouth off once and end up in jail for far longer than he could handle. 

No, best to slip in before he’s managed to do himself too much harm and extract  him.

Sadly, Mycroft is the only one short of a professional ops team who has a chance of ripping him out by hand.

“Head for Lambeth,” he instructs the driver. “I’ll have the address in a moment. Fast as you can.”

He can feel his personal walls rising into place as he realizes what this means.

_ Sherlock has to come out before Gregory goes in.  _

_ Before Gregory sees. _

_ Shit.  _

_ Forgive me. _

 

*

 

By the time the car, stark in its dark, glossy exterior compared to the sort of houses it’s drawing up to, lets him out it is fully day, and Mycroft has had three more phone calls with Anthea to rearrange meetings and prepare yet another rehabilitation facility to prepare to accept Sherlock.

He’s running out of places in London that are willing. Switzerland, perhaps, might be suitable, though Mycroft despairs of leaving Sherlock unattended in another country. Heavens know what sort of mischief he could get up to. 

Thomas gives him a skeptical look in the rearview as Mycroft gives him his instructions- that he is under no circumstances to be spotted by police, but if the local CCTV camera picks up Daniel Fenton within a hundred yard radius Thomas is absolutely authorized to incapacitate him by any means at hand. 

His driver does not seem to believe him, but he lets Mycroft out all the same, pulling round after to some less conspicuous location. 

Mycroft is unsurprised to find the door to the house in question is not locked. 

“Oi, what’re you-” 

His hand finds the collar of the young man’s shirt and pushes him ungently into the wall, finding little resistance in what must be a very “mellow” state.  _ Heroin. Coming off it now.  _ “There is a young man here you think of as posh. I am going to collect him. Where is he?”

“M’not a rat-”

Mycroft pulls him forward and shoves him back again, hard enough to rattle a few flecks of paint from the peeling walls. “Where?”

 

*

 

“Hate you, you know.” The words are slurred, distant and hazy. 

“Yes.” Mycroft is nearly dragging his brother- the car will be circling back through a nearby alley, and he should have just enough time to clear the incoming police traffic. “Oddly, I prefer that you hate me from outside a prison cell.”

“You said prison would suit me.”

“Not that sort of prison, though I am sure I could design you one that would better serve.”

“Fuck off.”

“Cease poisoning yourself and I will.” Stairs are hard-  _ Christ _ but Mycroft is not as strong as he used to be. Weights will need to be added to the routine. He’s almost wheezing. “Will you try and walk for yourself, please?”

“No.”

“ _ Sherlock.  _ Do you  _ want _ to spend a week being interrogated and left without bail in a communal cell?”

His brother does  _ try  _ to manage it, stumbling along beside him. Some threats, it seems, are still useful. “Tetchy. Didn’t interrupt things with the new one, did I?”

“No.”

“No-  _ ah-  _ he’s coming for the bust. Is he on narcotics? I’ll make a point to acquire his credentials next time-”

“No. Walk faster.”

“Think not, rather watch him squirm when he realizes he can’t arrest you.” 

“Walk. Faster.” They hit the back door with a thud, Mycroft peering out the curtains and not spying anyone.  _ Thank god. They haven’t got here yet. _ “There’s a car coming, you are to get in swiftly and without complaint, or I shall let Gregory’s people have you, understand.”

Sherlock grunts, which Mycroft supposes is the closest an assent he will have.

“On three, then, and I expect you to  _ move _ . One. Two-”

 

*

 

The sudden pounding of a fist on the front door goes unnoticed by most other occupants of the house. Nobody moves; nobody stirs. Greg's voice goes utterly ignored.

"Police!  _ Open up!" _

Outside on the step, he feels Sally tense at his side. They're meant to wait long enough to give the occupants time to get here, open the door and admit them by choice.  _ It's a crackhouse, _ Greg thinks, and the only person inside who might be lucid enough to let them in is Danny Fenton - and Danny's hardly going to put the kettle on for them. They've come as silently as they can in hope of catching him. This isn't the time to play nice.

Greg reaches for the door handle, shoving it open.

Bodies - shapes in the gloom. The windows are so filthy little light can pass through them. Some are covered with purpose to block out the glare of the daylight. The back-up team behind Greg switch their high-watt beams on, and they start sweeping over every person they can find in the darkness, rising groans. Greg follows them with his eyes, desperate, checking each broken figure they illuminate. Danny won't be comatose on drugs but if he's in this house, he now needs to hide, and he's smart enough to hide in plain sight then slip out when they've moved on.

_ Nothing. _

There's a sound somewhere in the house - a creak or a crack or a door, something changing in the structure. Greg's heart jolts. He pushes on through this room in a panic and finds stairs, gesturing quickly with his arm.

"Sally - go with - "

Sally races up the stairs into the darkness, leading back-up officers behind her.

As Greg turns to check on the rest of them, he spots the other door.

_ Oh - Jesus -  _

Two years ago, when Danny Fenton was last here, that door had broken heavy furniture shoved up against it, blocking it. It's now clear and in use. 

As the armed officers hurry up the stairs after Sally, Greg moves to the door and grabs for the handle. He finds it's unlocked. 

He opens it, his heart pounding, praying he's not about to see someone running.

 

*

 

“Does he wear the uniform for you, your  _ boyfriend? _ You would be into that sort of thing, all orderly and pressed and  _ boring. _ ”

“Gregory- is not- your concern.”  _ Christ _ , when did Sherlock become so bloody hard to carry? If anything he’s  _ lost _ weight. 

_ God. Getting old. _

“Stop… dragging your-” Mycroft grunts as the car pulls up in front of them, shoving past the rear gate to what passes for the garden and yanking the car door open. “Get in.”

“Think I’d rather stay and-”

“Get  _ in _ , or I will find you a rehab in _ Greenland _ and no one will bat an eye when you die on a glacier.”

He shoves Sherlock in with little concern for propriety or gentleness- they’re past that, and besides he’s actually  _ sweating _ , one rogue lock of hair already springing loose from his careful containment. 

Sherlock takes his bloody time getting across the seat and Mycroft himself gets in and closes the door just as he hears shouting coming from the upper rooms of the house where he’d just lifted Sherlock off a dirty mattress.

_ Too close. Far too close. _

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose again, feeling more secure inside the opaque windows. “Thomas, drive, please. Whatever way will avoid the police, thank you.”

 

*

 

The car seems to make no sound as it drives away. 

Greg watches it, numb. 

He realises he can't feel the door handle against his fingers anymore. He knows it's there, like he knows there should be sound taking place around him right now. 

The car isn't the source of the silence. 

It's him.

It's inside him like a fog - he can't see through it. He can't hear a thing, except his brain trying to cope by telling him they didn't just see what they saw. That wasn't Mycroft. That wasn't Mycroft's ex. The two of them weren't here, and Mycroft wasn't nearly carrying the guy in his arms, and they didn't just drive off at speed. Greg imagined it all. It wasn't real.

It couldn't be real.

_ I... _

Numb, his senses fried, Greg is oblivious to the shouts from upstairs. He's oblivious, too, to the panic-stricken figure who comes flying down, whirls around the banister and bolts for the nearest open door - the one where Greg is standing.

Greg hits the ground before he even knows Danny Fenton is there. Danny ploughs into him at full force, knocks him through the door and lands on top of him, kicking and scrambling to his feet. Danny takes off across the garden in a flash, vaults the rear gate, and vanishes. 

Back-up are already in pursuit. Two of them run right over Greg before he has the strength to haul himself out of the way, panting in pain. More back-up officers come pouring out of the house, giving chase. It's all over. Danny's gone.

Greg stays where he is on the ground, his hands burning and scrubbed where they broke his fall. 

The pain is only background noise. It doesn't seem to belong to him. Even as he hears sirens kicking into life, they don't mean a thing.


	16. Chapter 16

_ 'Oh, I’m in the right place. It’s you I’m not as sure about.' _

Greg is in the canteen of St Thomas's Hospital on Westminster Bridge Road. He knows how he got here, even if he had very little to do with it. Sally took one look at him lying in the garden and assumed he hit his head when Danny Fenton barged him down. 

Greg didn't know how to explain to her it wasn't that. He could hardly even speak, let alone put into words what was wrong - and so the next hour had simply happened to him - Sally's car, A&E, a nurse checking him for signs of concussion, cleaning up his hands and dressing them. The conclusion was not concussed, just shocked, with a recommendation he should be watched for a few hours to make sure.

Sally guided him quietly to the hospital canteen, got him a cup of tea and a toasted teacake for the sugar, then sat him in a corner. She's kept an eye on him as she makes phone calls, still trying to track down Danny Fenton.

Greg eats the teacake and drinks the tea as if it's a dream, not really feeling them in his hands. 

He's trapped somewhere between trying not to think and thinking at a speed he can't even process.

_ 'Is the perks you like? The nice dinners- is he still favoring that French establishment?' _

It doesn't make sense.

Unless one possibility is floated - and then it makes perfect, seamless, agonising sense.

Numb, Greg's brain reaches for the familiarity and the shelter of procedure.  _ What motive do you have to be there?  _

For him. To get him out. 

_ What motive for that?  _

If this was someone else's life, and not his own, Greg would be calling it  _ 'a personal relationship'  _ and leaving it there. The specifics almost wouldn't matter. The individual cares enough about another person-of-interest to retrieve them from a drug den before the police could arrive. 

_ But... but you said he... _

Then what  _ had  _ Mycroft said? 

_ 'He does… know me. He has for a very long time.' _

Not,  _ I knew him.  _ Not,  _ we were associated.  _ Greg took it to mean this guy was just another Karen, just a mess, claws digging deep into what they once had. Mycroft's advice on dealing with the guy was a vague,  _ leave him to me, darling. I'll handle him. _

Greg tries to imagine carrying Karen from a drug den. Sweeping her into a car before anyone can see.

It makes no sense - unless the possibility is approached.

_ Those bruises. _

_ Those bruises, where... gripped. Restrained for a while. _

_ 'Is this a person you see regularly?' _

_ 'Not - regularly.' _

The numbness breaks suddenly. All at once, the shock seems to loosen its grip. Greg knows in an instant what he needs to do. It's as if his brain has been in lockdown for an hour, processing, trying to understand, and now it's come back to him with both its conclusions and what to do about them.

That was Mycroft. And that was Mycroft's ex - the arsehole who'd gotten Greg searched in the street like a criminal - they were there, and there would be a reason for it, and Greg needs to know that reason.

He needs to know it now.

In silence he pulls his phone from inside his coat, ignoring the shake of his hand. He opens up his messages.

Sally watches him across the table, distracted from her call. She's worried about him. Greg types the message quickly, cleanly, quietly, and sends it without a sound. 

He then lays his phone on the sticky grey table, the message window still open, and he waits.

 

_ [10:14] Hows your morning? xx _

 

*

 

As soon as the car is moving, Mycroft is on the phone to Anthea, performing damage control for his morning obligations. The conference begins  _ tonight _ , there’s no  _ time  _ to drag Sherlock to any locations yet, not does he trust anyone, save perhaps Anthea, to get Sherlock to a facility without being distracted or talked out of it- and he still would not subject Anthea to Sherlock for that long unless he had to.

He has her prep a room, empty of any relevant material (the files “left” within are just enough to occupy Sherlock for a while, though the data itself is all out of date). 

Mycroft does not have a single solitary feeling of guilt as he shoves his brother through the door of the vacant office and locks the door, despite a few raised eyebrows from the others in his small staff. “Brief me,” he growls as he strides to his office.

It takes him longer than he’d like to catch up and he’s forced to set aside the time he’d like to allot to remotely supervising Gregory’s efforts, along with any review of potential of Danny Fenton, to do his blasted  _ actual job. _

A job which is, at the moment, being terribly irritating. Half a dozen ministers seem to have ignored his security briefing entirely, and several of the foreign delegations have managed to slip either unauthorized guests (typically of the corporate variety) or members of their country’s security services (fine, generally, if they would have simply  _ asked _ first).

“Ridiculous,” he breathes as he rearranges the security rota for the fifth time  _ today.  _

_ And it’s not even lunch yet. _

He misses the first flash of light on his phone, only catching it when the secondary reminder goes off a few minutes later. It makes him smile- if Gregory is texting, then hopefully he is having a calmer morning than Mycroft is.

_ [10:22] Painfully busy. I don’t know why I expect anyone to actually listen to my opinion on things anymore. Four meetings already where nothing has been accomplished. MH x _

_ [10:23] How goes the hunt for your favorite degenerate? MH x _

 

*

 

Greg gazes down at the messages.

As the letters blur, he feels the silence roll back in.

All at once he's not sitting here in this chair. He's living all the moments which have brought him here. They're opening in his mind, happening around him as if they never ended. He's suddenly the same man he was ten years ago, looking down at another phone in his hand, another text, an old school friend's name and a string of kisses for her. 

_ Please no,  _ he's thinking. 

_ Not like this. _

_ I don't want it to be like this. _

He's sitting in DI Roscoe's lounge that night, crying, and it's one AM. He hadn't dared to tell Andy.  _ She's cheating on me, Andy. She's having an affair.  _ Some part of him had known Andy would believe it was his fault - working long hours, not looking after her - he couldn't cope with that. He'd turned to Larry instead. Larry's first wife left him for his own brother. Larry understood. 

He stayed up with Greg until it was nearly dawn, talking and smoking together. He's still got his arm around Greg now, sitting in a hospital canteen ten years later. Greg can still hear his voice.  _ 'I know it hurts, Lestrade. M'sorry. I know you put your trust in her.' _

It's not Sally sitting across from Greg. It's Karen - the kitchen table in their first home - and she's tired of his grief, weary with his tears. She keeps saying,  _ 'I've told you I'm sorry. I've said it won't happen again. You're not listening.' _

Greg doesn't know how to make her understand. 

_ Why does it have to be like this? _

He doesn't want a marriage which will only ever be repaired at best. He wants it to be whole and honest and unbroken. He doesn't want to have survived an affair together. He wants her not to have done it, not to have lied. He wants to go back.

_ Back when it was all okay. _

_ When I didn't have to work to forget. _

He'd read books.  _ 'After Infidelity'.  _ One of them said to remember he hadn't lost  _ all  _ his trust in her. He would still trust her to pick up milk and bread if he asked; he would still trust her to come with him to the hospital with him if he was hurt. He could grow all the old trust from those seeds, stronger than it was, stronger for the pain. It wasn't over. He had the power to forgive, and to make it all alright, and that power was important.

He'd tried so hard.

When things were at their worst, it was why he'd stayed.  _ We built it once, and you broke it. I love you so much that I built it all again. I can't go and break it now. _

But it wasn't ever repaired - not really. It broke for good the day he found those texts. The fault line remained, ready to shatter again, and Greg wasted ten years guarding that fragile crack.  _ It's okay. It just needs work. It just needs forgiveness and love and it'll be alright. We're stronger now. Stronger for the break. _

_ But why did you have to break it, darlin'? _

_ Can't you have stayed as you were?  _

It feels unreal now - but there was a time she'd been everything in the world.  _ My Karen.  _ Funny and fascinating and with eyes which flashed to him in delight, amused when he spoke, as quick and clever as a fox. He'd been so fucking proud of her.  _ How did I ever catch your eye? How did I get hold of you? _

Then those texts, and the thought of her - somewhere - another man, her body. Undressing her. Kissing her skin, making her laugh.

Greg wasn't her lover from that moment on. He was just one of her collection. He was the most pathetic of them, too - the husband who forgave, and forgave, and forgave, all in memory of the way it once was. 

_ Did you have to break it to pieces, love? _

_ Didn't you realise it was beautiful? _

Larry's arm tightens around Greg. He's scrubbing Greg's hair, quiet and slow. He died two years ago, but he's right here.  _ 'I'm sorry she let you down, Lestrade. I thought she was a nice girl, too.' _

Greg's standing in the doorway, watching them struggle down the garden together - Mycroft's arm, wrapped tight around a shrunken waist - the mess of dishevelled dark curls resting against his shoulder.

_ 'And not bored of you yet. How novel. He will be, eventually.' _

Greg's eyes close.

Reeling, more words come to him. 

_ 'He's not smoking around you, either, is he? I doubt he’s actually quit, he never really quits... but he is very, very good at hiding things.' _

He can feel clarity turning its light upon his happiness, cold and stark, and in an instant it all looks so different. The Kensington house Greg's called home - the man he loves - the quiet evenings watching films together, the little calico cat who makes them feel like a family. 

The lie casts all the shadows long. 

_ 'Meetings'.  _

_ Oh Jesus. _

Greg can't feel the chair beneath him anymore. He can't hear a single sound.

_ Is this the first time you've called him that, darlin'? _

Realisations and doubts topple one after the other, like a shelf with a support removed. 

_ Andy. Lizzie. The restaurant.  _

_ Something came up - something you couldn't drop for me. All the late nights you work. All your meetings. 'Indisposed'. _

_ Bruises. Anthea helping you cover them. _

_ Oh fuck. _

Mycroft is in politics. He's clever enough to turn his eye across a room of people, and pick things out at a glance that Greg would take days to uncover in an interview room. He's a professional liar. He can magic solutions out of the air - and he can make things disappear, too.

_ Christ, I... _

Greg breaks as he realises. It hurts too deep for him to breathe.

_ I'm the dumbest fucking moron who ever lived. _

Two of them now. One of each - her; now him. Funny and fascinating, as quick and clever as a fox. 

Devoted to them. Heart-eyed and stupid. Happy just to be with them, happy just to have arms around him at night, so happy he can't imagine it ever being anything else. He'd thought it was all so bloody different - so different it made the world brand new - but it isn't.

_ My miracle,  _ he thinks, and at once he's crying.  _ Oh Jesus. I wanted to marry you. I'd have said yes in a heartbeat. I fell asleep thinking about us growing old. _

_ Oh fuck.  _

_ I don't want you to be a liar. Fuck. I don't want you to be his. I wanted you to be mine, just mine. Only mine.  _

_ Fuck. _

There's an arm wrapping around his shoulders. 

"Greg?" a voice is saying. "Greg... Greg, what's - "

He can hardly hear her. 

_ Oh shit.  _

_ Oh Jesus. _

_ Fuck. You too. _

 

*

 

Mycroft is swiftly dragged into another video meeting with the DGSE, EEAS, and AISE over a potential problem with stolen passports, followed by Anthea’s sudden and disheveled appearance in his office to inform him that Sherlock successfully picked the lock, so she’s zip-tied him to the furniture for a bit.

Knowing Sherlock, that shall probably buy Mycroft… two hours or so, since Anthea actually knows how to use those ties, before he manages to break out of them.

It’s only after returning to his desk that he realizes he’s not heard from Gregory.

_ [11:37] Have you been swept up with your case, darling? MH x _

 

*

 

Somehow - he'll never remember how - Greg convinces Sally it's safe to leave him alone. He makes her believe he just needs to sleep. The nurses in A&E must have warned her he might want to, because somehow they're at his old flat, and she's helping him struggle up the stairs. It's been looking emptier and emptier lately.

He doesn't remember the last time he slept here. 

"Is there anything you need?" Sally asks, as she sits him on the side of his bed.

_ Brought him here. Home with me. First day we met.  _

"M'fine, Sal. Go on. Just need to sleep."

_ Laid down with me. Made me feel like I was real, like I was whole. Like I wasn't broken after all. _

"Do you want some food or anything? You're really pale..."

_ Like I was a normal bloke, and we could have a normal life. Like it was all back on track. _

"Just sleep. Feel kinda fuzzy. M'okay, honestly... just need to rest."

_ Did you have me figured out even then, Myc? Moment we met.  _

_ Some idiot who won't ask questions.  _

_ Some idiot to get bored of.  _

"Well... if you need me," she says, her brown eyes gentle, "ring me, alright? Even if you just want some food fetching... d'you want me to call Mycroft for you? Tell him what happened?"

Even the name hurts to hear.

"No," Greg manages, numb. "Just sleep, Sal. Thanks f'getting me home."

The moment she's gone, he pulls himself weakly out of his coat. He strips down to his shirt and boxers, hardly aware of his own movements, and he crawls without a sound beneath his covers. 

Pain whites his senses. It hurts so much he can't believe it - it hurts like it won't ever stop.

His thoughts come as gasps, somewhere in the agony.

_ Leave. Leave London. Colchester.  _

_ Go home. _

_ Andy.  _

_ Oh my god. Andy. _

Tears run hot down Greg's face, dampening the pillow beneath him as he shakes. He'll stay here until he can breathe around the hurt. He'll cry until he's safe to drive, and then he'll drive. 

And he'll go home. 

He'll talk to Andy, and he'll beg. He'll say he's sorry. He'll tell Andy he was right, and Andy will look after him then - it's all Andy ever needs to hear, that he was right. It'll be enough. He'll take Greg in like the broken fucking mess he always was.

He'll go home to his family, and he'll break.

_ Break. _

_ Break for good this time. _

Leaving Karen was a relief; the quiet and the loneliness which followed were Greg's shelter. There won't be relief this time. Mycroft is his life and his home and his heart, and he's going to have to reach into his chest and rip it out with both hands. It's what he should have done when he first realised Karen didn't truly belong to him. He wasted ten years of his life, broken and stupid and trying to earn his true place in her heart by forgiving how she treated him.

Not this time.

Pain, this time.

He just needs to get to Andy. It'll be okay somehow. All their lives, Andy has been warning Greg he's not capable of coping, trying to teach him hard truths about the world. Greg's finally ready to listen. 

_ Cry first.  _

_ Cry until I can cope with the drive. _

_ Then get to Andy. _

 

*

 

Mycroft cannot quite seem to stop checking his phone. Ostensibly on lunch, though as usual  _ eating  _ is not a priority, he begins flipping through the data collected on the alerts he’d set up earlier. He lets out an irritated hiss when he realizes Fenton was not only definitively in the same neighborhood as Sherlock, but very much in the same house.

_ A close call indeed. _

Perhaps Gregory had been called into the interrogation, though it is a bit surprising that he had not sent Mycroft some manner of joyous wit at having caught his prey.

“Sir?” Anthea has put her hair back together, though she still looks a bit harried. 

_ Well, exposure to Sherlock does have that effect. _

“Yes?”

“We’ve a report- I’m so sorry I didn’t bring it to you earlier- Inspector Lestrade was pulled into A&E for a possible concussion.” Mycroft’s heart lurches, and it’s only Anthea’s steady voice and a raised hand to stop him that prevent him from leaping the desk and charging for the nearest car. “I’ve taken a look at the report- he’s fine, just been sent home to rest.”

“Ah. Well-” He quickly maps the remainder of meetings for the day, reorganizing and reallocating his resources. “I should be able to handle the remainder of our needs for today from home- set it up for video conferencing-”

“Sorry, sir-  _ his _ home.”

“His….”

Mycroft blinks. 

_ Gregory lives with me. _

“Sergeant Donovan was with him, she took him to his flat. His previous flat.”

_ Ah.  _

Part of that is sensible. Sally Donovan would not know Gregory’s new address- but why would Gregory not tell her his current address if his concussion is, in fact, minor? 

_ [13:03] Gregory? Is everything alright? I’ve heard you were in A&E earlier. MH x _

 

*

 

When Greg wakes up, he's sure he's dreaming.

Then she passes her fingers through his hair, and smiles down at him gently, and he realises he's not. He didn't lock the door when he got in. 

It makes a strange sort of sense that she's here.

Karen's face is full of sympathy. Her eyes are soft as she looks down at him, regarding his tears without surprise.

"I heard you weren't well," she murmurs. "Got yourself injured on a raid. Concussion, is it?"

Greg wonders how long she's been sitting on his bed, watching him sleep. "Ryan told you."

Karen doesn't reply, quietly stroking back his hair. 

"Where's your Prince Charming?" she asks.

The tears rise in Greg's eyes, exhausted. He's too tired to hide them. There's a painful comfort in knowing she's seen it all before. Whatever distress she caused him, it's nothing compared to how he feels right now.

Mycroft was meant to be better. 

"Not mine," he manages. His throat grips around the words. "H-Him, too. What you did. Someone else. The same."

Karen doesn't speak for a moment. Her expression doesn't change at all; it's how Greg knows she's genuinely surprised. 

"Oh," she says.

"Found out this morning. Saw them together." 

_ Why am I telling you this? _

"Think it must just be me," Greg says. "Easy to lie to." He watches her face; his chest aches with the need to know. "Tell me something. Please. Now it's all over between us."

Her forehead creases. "Tell you what?"

It takes Greg some time to pull the words from his heart into his mouth. 

"Why?" he says at last. "Why'd you do it? Why was I not enough, just me? Please don't lie. Just once in your life, tell me the truth. Please."

Karen looks down.

She brushes back his hair, keeping the answer to herself for a moment.

"I got bored, love."

Greg feels it sink beneath his skin. It makes sense; like Mycroft's text, it hurts but it explains.  _ I'm only fun for a while,  _ he thinks.  _ Then I'm easy to keep quiet. _

He breathes it in, trying to find some calm in it.

"It's really over with your posh boy, then?" she asks him.

Greg shuts his eyes. 

"Can't go through it again," he mumbles. "What I went through with you. Lies. Always waiting for you to leave. M'too old now." His heart twists, thinking of Marmalade and unsure why. "I'd rather be alone."

There's a quiet pause.

"M'gonna go to Andy," he says. The thought of his brother's face makes him feel small, but safe in the smallness. "Just... s-stick with family. Safer."

"Good idea," Karen murmurs.

Greg doesn't speak. He keeps his eyes shut as he feels her weight leave the mattress beside him, getting to her feet. 

"You know I used to feel guilty," she says, "don't you? Lying. Other men."

Greg is now broken enough to smile. "You didn't, Karen. Don't give me that."

"I did, Greg... some of them, at least."

There comes another pause - he feels her lean down. 

He's too tired to move. He simply lies still as she kisses him on the temple. 

"I feel guilty about Andy," she murmurs against his forehead. "I always did."

Greg's eyes open.

Karen smiles at him across two inches of space. 


	17. Chapter 17

Anthea is _not_ overwhelmed.

That does not happen to her.

However.

Mycroft has not done any worthwhile work in the last forty-five minutes, and Anthea is already covering all of his nonessential emails in addition to her _own_ duties _and_ reviewing the flagged reports that come in from the security protocols she has in place.

He’s been staring at his phone, staring at CCTV of Sally Donovan helping Gregory into her car, then out of her car and into the hospital, like it might offer him some manner of divine answer.

She hasn’t had the heart to interrupt him.

Halfway through drafting a revised secure entry procedure for the catering staff attending the reception, she realizes her private channel has been pinging at her.

 _Alert: Facial recognition match, exterior proximity._   
_Alert: Facial recognition match, interior proximity._ _  
_Alert: Door ajar

She knows what face will be waiting for her before the image loads.

“Sir!”

 

*

 

_Mycroft calling….._

_Mycroft calling….._

_Mycroft calling….._

 

_*_

 

_[13:56] hello mycroft :) how are things?_

_[13:58] just been chatting to G about you. yikes, what a mess... so sorry he found out about your fun and games. those puppy dog eyes when he cries :( so sad._

_[14:01] just FYI. maybe my timing could have been better here but... well it also came out in conversation that I might have been involved with his brother a few times..._

_[14:01] (he didn't take it so well.)_

_[14:04] don't worry though, I'm sure he won't do anything drastic. I left him on his own to calm down. it's maybe unfortunate we both dropped our bombshells on the same day but... well he's a tough cookie :)_

_[14:10] and don't feel guilty if anything does happen, will you? he's always had a short fuse and you know how it is with twins. all that simmering jealousy. this was inevitable. lots of love :) thanks for all your help. K xx_

 

*

 

“She has his-”

Mycroft stops and blinks.

Anthea is certain she is witnessing his mind physically resetting.

“She has his phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a flash of something across his face she’s never seen before, not even in his worst panic attacks.

She really does not want to think it’s fear.

His eyes close and she prepares herself- if Mycroft is incapacitated for the reception, there’s a system, but Sir Edwin will insist on inserting himself-

When his eyes open again she realizes she needn’t have worried. This is not the Mycroft who cordially greets his staff and lovingly tends to his partner and defers, when necessary, to members of Parliament.

This is the iteration who used to go into the field to gather what he needed himself. This is the version that reminds politicians that if he really wished to, he could ruin any of them without a second thought.

But there is something else there as well- something more than the ruthless man who is capable of ordering death when he needs to. There is something wounded in him, something fraying.

It’s alarming to realize that she has no idea what that Mycroft will do at all.

“Order the car.”

The staff members who have not seen Mycroft Holmes in full political battle armor _quake._ Anthea is certain she spies one junior analyst dive behind a filing cabinet when Mycroft strides out of his office leaving a noticeably frigid chill in his wake.

“You’re going to have to be me until I return. I shall transfer you full authorization from the car. I cannot guarantee that I will return before the reception- I am sure you’ll make do.”

She manages only a grunt of assent from the back of her throat, trying to ignore the voice screaming in her head that she’s meant to be a PA, not a divisional head of a MI section.

Fortunately, there is another voice in her head that reminds her she’s done it before- maybe not all at once, but all the pieces separately.

She can do this too, if Mycroft needs it.

The door to the vacant office his brother has been held in is flung open with little warning. Her boss lifts a small knife and carves through his zip-tie restraints. “Sherlock... You shall be accompanying me in the car until you are fit to be placed into rehabilitation.”

Sherlock scoffs. “If you think I cannot free myself from a _car_ , brother mine-”

Mycroft grabs his lapels and yanks him closer, using his scant advantage in height to full effect. “If you so much as _breathe_ out of place you will be riding in the trunk. I am not. In the mood. For games.”

Even Sherlock looks a bit concerned at that, though he hides it swiftly enough.

The entire office seems to shake after Mycroft departs with his brother in tow, as though no one quite knows what is happening. Even Anthea feels a change in her heartbeat, out of sync and discordant.

The notification in her email minutes later does not help.

 _From: 101_   
_Credentials updated: Designation 113_   
_Security privileges increased: Ultra status_ _  
_Revised classification: Acting Deputy Head, Section 01

Her breath and heart shudder together.

_Ping._

Another alert. Security. There’s been an uptick in reports generated from the Ministry of Transportation, which is extremely unusual. Very few people ever bother to look at the _actual_ Transportation officials, let alone the small group of personnel who only serve there in name only.

_Online search requests: 27_

_Twenty-seven?_

She clicks through. They’re all variations on the same request. _Mycroft Holmes,_ followed by what must be guesses at his title or division.

Her brow furrows.

Clicking back through the other reports, she looks them over very carefully, noting a vaguely familiar number had made a few calls around lunch, then another late in the day. The last one catches her eye, a phone call to general reception. Security review has flagged it, the receptionist will be due a retraining in the proper handling of things.

She lets out a little frustrated growling noise when she realizes why she recognizes the number.

The call transcript indicates that the receptionist mistakenly admitted he couldn’t put the caller through to Mycroft because his office isn’t in that building. The caller became insistent, indicating there was some sort of family emergency- his partner, surely everyone there knows about his _partner,_ Greg? Greg Lestrade?

“Shit.”

Apparently, the caller had expressed great interest when the receptionist said he’d never actually met Mr. Holmes but would be sure to pass the message on. She’d hung on doggedly insinuating there was something very wrong with Mr. Lestrade, when in a desperate bid to get off the phone the man told her everything to do with Mr. Holmes’ department was above his pay grade.

“Fucking bollocks.”

Assuming she’s as clever as Anthea thinks she is, she’d realize immediately what an unreachable, minor government position might mean. There are governments who hadn’t done quite so good a job of ferreting out security services covers as Karen Lestrade had likely just managed with a breathy voice and a well-timed phone call.

Anthea lays out the ramifications in her mind. This important. Someone with potential knowledge of a classified asset’s identity could do a great deal of damage, from some sort of public outing of their name to selling them to an interested foreign power. And Karen, while a civilian, is a vicious, manipulative bitch.

In a private folder on her phone, she opens a psychological assessment she’d noted before and reads it over once more. She can’t be sure. It’s hard to be sure with human behavior.

But there are buttons one can push to get a bit closer to predictability.

She picks up a binder from her desk and tucks it under her arm. Her departure from the office is scarcely noted. It’s likely they all assume she needs a quiet moment in the loo to cope with the stress.

It’s hardly that.

She’ll take a tube over- keep away from the cameras.

No record. No ties. At least she can ensure that.

 

*

 

Greg reaches Barking before the rain begins.

He's not really present for the moment in which it starts to fall. He just seems to become aware again, fading back into existence. He finds himself behind the wheel of his car, his eyes locked on the scattered grey shape of the road just visible through the driving rain. It's only afternoon, but other drivers are switching on their headlamps. The storm weighs so heavy on the world that the day seems to have buckled beneath its weight, giving way to premature night. Rain lashes the car. It wants him to stop, to go back.

There's no sound but the swish-thunk of his windscreen wipers. He's not aware of his breathing or his heart beating.

There's just the road.

As he drives, he's remembering the day of his disciplinary ten years ago. It was Larry who first used the phrase 'saw red'. Other people picked it up, once Larry had used it. It gave them some way to understand - it pulled the situation into some shape which made sense. DS Lestrade wasn't a danger to the public. He was just a hurt young man who'd been in love, been humiliated, seen red.

It's not red at all.

It's like seeing nothing.

Greg could close his eyes right now, and the car would drive him where it needs to go. If he ploughed it into a building, staggered out of the wreckage and walked, his feet would take him instead. He doesn't need to think - just keep fading in and out of existence, just wait, just watch it all happen from inside his own skull. He's locked into place. This isn't a decision he's made.

It's a fall.

The ground is coming. He can see it.

It doesn't mean he'll suddenly grow wings and be okay.

From Barking he carries on to Gallows Corner, then Brentwood and on towards Chelmsford. The rain drives down; time doesn't seem to be passing. He's not aware of moving from one moment to the next. It's just happening around him, all at once. Time as he knew it stopped as she said those words. It won't start again until this is over.

_'Yes, when we were married.'_

_'Yes, when we were divorcing.'_

_'Yes, now.'_

The anger is Greg's only option. If he escaped the anger, he'd drop at once into pain - a pain he wouldn't survive.

_Doesn't matter._

_Any of it._

Greg's life would never have led him safely to Mycroft - exes or no exes. The lies don't matter in the end. Events would always have led Greg here to this road, and to the driving rain, and everyone's been waiting for him to break. They've been waiting his whole life for him to shatter.

They were right.

 

*

 

“Phone tracking is irrelevant- send the data to Anthea. Perhaps she can be brought up on theft charges. No- we have record of him departing the city. It will be Colchester, the only question is the specific address- drive swiftly and I will alert you when I have an address.”

It is a clear dismissal, and one Thomas takes in stride as he rolls the privacy screen back up. Were Mycroft thinking more clearly, he might also note it doubly serves to protect Thomas from _him._

He glares at flashing patterns of grainy footage, fingers steepled in front of him as though he can will the information he needs to the fore. _One_ of them will catch CCTV sooner or later. Gregory or Andy. All he needs is an approximation, he can zero in from there.

It does not escape his particularly sharp focus that Sherlock has remained quiet and is now contemplating his elder from the far side of the expansive rear seat, leaning against the door. “Whatever it is you are thinking, do refrain.”

“No, I don’t think I shall.”

Mycroft sighs, feeling the few strands of his remaining patience that had found themselves in the quiet of the car fracture. “Sherlock-”

“You love him.”

“Yes.” Mycroft keeps his eyes on the work before him. Work will keep him focused and steady. He cannot afford to be unsteady right now.

“You’re very worried for him, not because he might injure himself, but because of the toll it would take if he injured another.”

Mycroft’s teeth grind. _When all else fails, channel emotions into pain and you will override the initial hysteria._ “Quite.”

“What happened to ‘caring is not an advantage’?”

“It is _not,”_ Mycroft growls at his brother. “It is chaotic, and distracting, and it _hurts_ , but it is _everything_. Advantage does not begin to cover it.”

Sherlock’s head tilts. “No jabs regarding myself and drugs. You are worried for yourself as well. This feels like field work to you. Old field work. You didn’t just give your assistant your credentials, you effectively promoted her. Succession planning.” His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “You are worried you might kill her.”

“If she has hurt him-”

“Then let me clean up for you. The police will not find a thing.”

Mycroft arches a brow despite himself. “Really.”

“Purely selfish motivations, I assure you. I do require your assistance from time to time with the more boring elements of bureaucracy. It would not suit either of us for you to be in prison.”

“I see.”

“Besides, it’s useful for me if you owe me a fairly large favor.”

Mycroft can’t help it, the absurdity is too great. How typically Holmesian of them. Lives potentially on the line and neither of them are inclined to treat death as anything but a tool or an inconvenience. He huffs a laugh as his laptop pings.

His laughter fades, his analytical mask returning in full force.

“Hm. Thomas? I have a cross-street for you.”

 

*

 

It's bloody bleak out there.

 _Good job it's not my day,_ Andy thinks, gazing vaguely out into the garden as he waits for his toast. Lizzie's picking the girls up from school after work.

It means he's had some peace for once.

He'd hoped to get some job applications out. In the end, it's not happened. This weather's too depressing to do much. He's slumped into watching old episodes of _Come Dine with Me,_ and no doubt he'll get grief when she's home for not loading the dishwasher. He told her this morning he would. One episode's blurred into another.

As he returns to the lounge, drops back onto the sofa and brushes toast crumbs off his lap onto the floor, he feels his pocket start to vibrate.

He pulls his phone out, frowning.

The name of the caller makes him roll his eyes.

"Here we go..." he mutters to himself, lowers the volume on the TV, and with reluctance answers the phone. "What?" he asks, as he pins it between his shoulder and his ear.

"Might've caused you some trouble," Karen croons. "Sorry. Just slipped out... you know what I'm like."

"What just slipped out?"

"Don't know why he'd even care now, but... well, in his current state, who knows how he'll react to anything? Thought I'd give you a heads up, anyway."

Andy sighs, rolling his tongue across his teeth. She loves this sort of fuss. She's a whore for it, and it's tedious when she gets going. After a while she gets bored of him not reacting and goes off to try her luck somewhere else. He's used to the pattern by now.

"Don't hurry to the point, will you?" he mutters, reaching to the arm of the sofa for his cigarettes. "S'not like I'm busy."

Her little laugh reminds him of a pixie.

"You're not _busy,"_ she purrs. "You're at home in front of Channel Four, Dandy. When've you ever been busy in your life?"

Andy glances at the clock on the mantelpiece, lighting a cigarette. _At least an hour before they're home._ "Are you here?" he asks.

"'Here'?" she says.

She knows exactly what he means. His mouth curves. "You in Colchester or London?"

"That'd be telling."

Andy smirks around his cigarette. "Come over."

"Probably shouldn't," she whispers. "Don't want to cause more fuss than I already have."

He takes a drag, thinking. She won't play until he's taken the bait. As he blows smoke towards the ceiling he says, "Fine. What've you done?"

She gives a little cluck of her tongue.

"Might be bad this time," she says. "Turns out my timing wasn't great. Did you know he'd split from Prince Charming?"

"What're you on about?"

"I'm on about your baby brother, Dandy."

Andy's forehead creases. "You know we're twins, don't you?"

"Boy, don't I."

 _Christ, woman. Make it less creepy._ "Greg's split from him, then?"

"Mm. Looks like Prince Charming had someone else on the go."

Andy laughs coldly. _"Quelle surprise,"_ he says. "Some sort of politician, wasn't he? Probably got all his favourite rent boys on speed dial. When did this come out?"

"Today," Karen sighs, as if she's sorry in the slightest. "And well, you know... it probably didn't help."

"Didn't help?"

"Well, Greg wasn't in a _great_ mood when I got to his flat. Bit of a mess, to be honest."

Andy flicks the ash from his cigarette. "Why'd you go round?" he asks. "Did Greg ring you?"

She tuts.

"No, Dandy... I'm enemy number one, remember? And I definitely will be _now."_

Andy's starting to lose interest. She's clearly looking for entertainment, and he's got better things to do - he'll have Lizzie talking his ear off all evening, work and the kids. He doesn't need it from Karen, too.

"Are you anywhere nearer to the point?" he asks. "Or should I stick a film on while I wait?"

She starts to respond.

Her words are drowned out by the doorbell.

Andy frowns, taking the phone away from his ear. He turns his head towards the hall. It's still pouring with rain outside - unlikely to be charity collectors in this weather. The postman's already been today.

Before he can speak, the knocking begins - hard, thumping fists rain down upon the glass.

"Christ..." he mutters, concerned.

"What's wrong?"

"Dunno." The banging continues. _Lizzie? Home early? Left her key?_ Whoever is out there is determined not to be ignored. "I've gotta go."

He hangs up before she can respond, stubs his cigarette out on one of Lizzie's magazines, and heads quickly into the hall.

He can barely make out the shape of a person through the frosted glass. The rain's so heavy and the sky so dark that their form is distorted.

"Is that you?" Andy calls, as he reaches for the key in the lock. "Why're you back early? It's your day to pick up the - "

He pulls open the door.

In the same second he recognises Greg, the punch collides with his jaw.


	18. Chapter 18

Thomas is having trouble seeing through the storm by the time they draw close. Fortunately, he has extremely good GPS.

The rear of the car has been alarmingly silent for a while. That is, of course, the purpose of privacy screens- particularly given the nature of conversations that occasionally occur back there- but he has ways of noting the status of those goings on (to ensure the safety of his passengers, of course, and certainly not just to pry).

He rolls it down when they reach the address in question. “Sir, I-”

Mycroft is already out of the car, umbrella unfurled, bolting into the watery haze.

He doesn’t even pause to close the door.

The younger Holmes is quiet for a moment, staring after the elder. “You going to close that?” Thomas asks him after a bit.

The door closes.

Thomas sighs and pulls out his phone.

_Secure uplink established._   
_[147] Here. He’s gone in._   
_[113] Status on Keystone?_   
_[147] Unknown. Pursuit?_   
_[113] Authorized for extraction. Nonlethal preferred._ _  
_[147] Acknowledged.

There’s a shifting behind him. “Thomas, I see you found my supply.”

“We do clean the car from time to time, sir.”

“Boring. Well then. One shouldn’t turn down an opportunity to see one’s brother realize he’s an idiot. Wait for ten won’t you? That’s a good chap.”

Sherlock opens the door and runs off, his long coat trailing after him.

He fails to close the door as well.

Thomas rubs the bridge of his nose.

_[147] Io has gone after him. Please advise._

 

*

 

The front door is wide open to the rain. The house almost seems to reach for Mycroft, its face turned towards him in panic. Rain blows with him into the hallway, spattering some short distance inside.

Just beyond its reach, the path of destruction begins.

A small table used for potpourri, keys and letters has been knocked aside, its contents scattered across the carpet. The table's previous location is marked by a bevelled-edge mirror - now cracked from its centre to its corners, blood clinging to the site of impact. It's the pattern that would be created by the blunt impact of the back of a human skull.

More blood leads the way. There's a desperate handprint smeared along Lizzie's magnolia paint, as someone tried to prevent themselves being dragged and they lost. The lounge is in utter disarray. Furniture is broken, the television lies up-ended and a back window is smashed from some thrown object. The blood tells its story across the carpet now - more of it, falling from wounds which are worsening. A cut-through door at the back of the lounge leads to the kitchen, where the damage seems initially less intense. A skidded footprint marks someone trying to escape a pursuer, then there's a struggle beside one of the counters, blood flecked across the fridge from another punch, and a glass fruit bowl smashed across the floor. On from the kitchen, the dining room with broken chairs and yet more blood points the way to a staircase, the banister splintered.

Then comes the crash of an upstairs door being smashed apart by force.

Shouting erupts - two voices, almost identical, both in the absolute depths of panic and rage. The words are screamed in such a frenzy as to be indecipherable to an external listener, but are filled with nothing short of hatred.

 

*

 

Entering the house feels as though Mycroft has entered a different plane of existence.

One on hand, the _before,_ he has his sweet, kind-natured lover, the man who shyly says please in bed. The man that can scarcely bear to get ready for bed without giving their cat extra kisses.

On the other, there is the man who stormed in here like a tornado and doesn’t seem to care what damage he causes.

Mycroft does not know that Greg.

But he still loves him.

He follows the blood, walking the path of the damage, wincing when all the askew family photos of not-Greg stare back at him. It only adds to the wrongness of the entire venture.

The shouts from upstairs draw him up, up the steps though he can barely think to process why. The only thing in his mind is Gregory. _Get to Gregory. Make him safe._

Nothing else matters.

He can hear them inside- the animal noises- too alike. He can’t tell them apart by sound, and something about that offends him. He should. His love’s voice should always be obvious.

 

*

 

Blood now makes it hard to grip. Hair, instead - hair which produces a howl of pain as it's wrenched to one side, then slammed back against the wardrobe door. Andy tries to kick his way free. He chokes and twists like a grasped hare. Greg no longer knows which cries are his and which are Andy's. He doesn't care. The blood from his head wound is making him woozy. He thinks he's cracked a rib. It doesn't matter.

As he gets his fists around his brother's neck, Andy makes a sound Greg has never heard a human make. He holds on, panting with pain, tears burning in his eyes and stinging at his facial wounds as he watches Andy clawing at his hands in silence, mouthing, struggling, and the only words in Greg's head are _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._

Andy stares into his eyes, convulsing with shock and panic as he kicks against the wardrobe, trying to fight free. He can't believe Greg is killing him.

Greg stares back, gripping harder. His entire body shakes.

_I'll show you. I'll teach you._

_I'll make you believe._

 

*

 

Actually seeing it makes Mycroft pause. His mind cannot catch up. Blood- blood and violence and-

“ _Gregory!”_

His umbrella slams through the remnants of the door harder than any umbrella has a right to, clearing his way in a burst of shattering wood. All he can think of is running for Gregory, stopping him- anything-

Everything seems slow and dreamlike as he moves.

_You can’t kill him, my love. It will kill you too._

 

*

 

No-one else ever calls him 'Gregory'.

It feels like all the lights going out. The power to Greg's heart cuts, overloaded by a sudden surge. For a few seconds there's nothing at all - no Andy, no anger, no grief. The shock of the name takes Greg out of it all, and the relief of being free, even for a moment, feels like a final deep breath.

Then his systems reload, and it all comes back. Harder, sharper. Worse.

The shock has slackened his grip around Andy's throat. Not enough to let his brother go - just enough to let him pant for air.

Greg watches him struggle, numb.

_It's not about you._

_Is it?_

A lifetime of being treated like a fragile idiot, incapable of making his own choices.

It's nothing compared to six months of love.

For a few seconds Greg tries to feel what it would have been like. Discovering it just the same - of all people in the world, _Andy_ \- Andy, who's never missed an opportunity to remind him he's a mess, and Karen, who made him into a mess - but discovering it and stepping at once into arms, arms which love him, wrap him up, the voice which murmurs, _it isn't your fault how other people behave, my darling,_ fingers which stroke through his hair.

_It would have been okay._

His eyes ache as fresh tears flow. The only sound in the room now is Andy, panting in desperate fear. His gaze flashes towards Mycroft for help. _Do something. Stop him. Help me._

Greg watches, weak.

_Stop panicking. It's over._

_He's here to save you, Andy._

There'll be an ambulance soon. Police. Colchester station - statements - a cell. It'll all fall apart. They're twins, and that means this will hit the papers. The press love twins. Karen will give an interview to every face that turns towards her for the rest of her life. It's all over already, and Andy will be fine.

Greg's barely even managed to hurt him that much. For every injury he's given Andy, Andy's given him five. He can feel his vision starting to fog. Blood's running warm from the wound on the back of his head, easing its way down his neck. There'll be glass in it. He felt the whole mirror smash.

_Worth it?_

It had felt so, a minute ago.

_Just to show you, just once, that if I tried then I could._

As adrenalin ebbs, Greg's body is registering more and more damage - blood in his mouth, bruising across his stomach - and it's definitely a broken rib. Maybe two. It's making it hard to breathe. He only cared about getting hold of Andy, getting to this moment when just for once he was winning.

It's catching up to him now.

It's over now.

_Pain,_ Greg thinks. _All the pain, then._

He turns his head.

Tears fill his eyes afresh. _There you are._ Last night he'd laid in bed, imagining Mycroft walking towards him on their wedding day. _Oh, fuck. I was so easy, wasn't I? I did all the work for you. I couldn't wait for you to ruin me._

_Everything she did, and I still didn't learn._

_I just wanted to be with you._

Karen had waited to do this until there was no ground left beneath him. Mycroft was his shelter and all his strength. He arrived in Greg's life like they'd been trying to find each other, and now ever-after could just unfold around them like a cardboard castle in a pop-up book.

Professional liar with a collection.

One at home - cats and films and comfort food. One to indispose him and bruise his wrists. Anthea to cover up the marks.

_'I will be your family.'_

_Fuck._

In silence Greg turns his eyes back to Andy. His brother tenses, tightening his grip on Greg's hands ready for them to crush his throat again.

Greg swallows, inhaling through the pain.

"You think you made a fool of me," he mumbles. His voice slurs with the effort of holding on. Even staying upright hurts. Andy's pupils constrict, watching him in panic. "Dumb happy Greg. Never sees a thing. Believes life s'all roses 'nd wedding rings. You think you got me."

Fresh tears shine in his eyes, glittering.

"Here's a real expert, Andy. Pay 'ttention. Karen'll want to hear 'bout it."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s first thought is that Karen has given Greg something. Some sort of drug, something that has turned him into… this bloodied man before him, with his hands still about his brother’s throat.

It takes him far longer than it should for him to process the _words._

_I don’t understand._

_“Real expert.”_ In what? Deception?

_What the hell did she tell him?_

It doesn’t matter. Gregory can hate him, so long as he’s safe.

Mycroft reaches for him anyway, his umbrella falling to the floor.

“Gregory- please.” His words are fractured and broken. He’s not even aware that he’s started to cry. “Let him go.”

His fingers close on the back of Greg’s shirt, still rain-damp, gently trying to pull him off- he has to let go on his own, Mycroft knows. Prying his fingers off Andy’s throat may injure Greg more. “Gregory. You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”

“Please.”

 

*

 

Sherlock is not terribly far behind. He lingers amongst the detritus downstairs, eyes taking in all the details of the photos on the walls, the scattered mail. The trajectory of the fight is obvious. _Boring._ The nature of the household is more intriguing.

The front door clatters behind him and he hears Thomas curse. He slips toward the stairs while the driver is debating what to do about the blood. Children live here, after all. People frown on that sort of thing.

Upstairs, his brother is clinging to both his lover and his tenuous remaining hold on rational thought. Sherlock has never seen him this close to a complete break. He did not honestly think he had the emotional capacity to be this wounded.

It’s unnerving, much as he would be loathe to admit it.

“Sherlock,” his brother's voice creaks. “Help me?”

Sherlock skims the room. _Help_ is not something he is wired for. But he can _see_ , and- “Oh, you’re all idiots, aren’t you,” he breathes quietly.

“Yes, brother mine,” he says more loudly, staring at Greg. Andy shifts, and his gaze slides there, narrowing. “I’d stay down, if I were you. Don’t move. Don’t even think.”

 

*

 

Greg's back hardens into rock under Mycroft's hands. The almost animal clench of his muscles digs his fingers briefly tighter into Andy's throat, producing a thick swallow and a panicked look at Mycroft. Greg doesn't move.

He can't.

He can barely even hear anymore, weak with blood loss. He wishes he was still in the fury. Anger had been easy; pain is so much harder. _You want it to be assault, not murder. You don't want your name tied to murder._ He wishes Andy realised how little he cares about the distinction between the two right now. Andy, for once, is nothing. All Greg wants in the world is for Mycroft to stop touching him like he loves him, because he knows it's just to get him to put Andy down, and he can't bear it.

For a second, the thought alone is nearly worth killing Andy. _Let it be murder. Let them lock me away. Let them drag you through the papers, tied to me forever._

Greg then catches the fourth voice from the door.

The pain is like being set alight.

_You brought -_

_You actually fucking brought -_

His senses blitz with grief and humiliation. _I'm on the brink of murder. And you brought him._ He's just forfeited his job, his freedom, his family, his whole world, and here's Mycroft's lover to witness it.

_Oh god, it's gone. It's all gone._

_God._

_What have I done?_

Greg's hands slacken. He can't hear anything; he can't breathe through his burning, broken tears. As his balance starts to swing, he feels his own weight drag him down as if through water.

He slumps.

As his twin passes out against him, Andy stiffens. He doesn't make a sound, his eyes wide, as frozen into place as if Greg's hands were still wrapped around his throat.

 

***

 

Nothing feels real.

Mycroft has been swept along, floor to discreet ambulance to hospital. He’s fairly certain Anthea was by at some point. It doesn’t really matter. Sherlock’s been lurking about. He lifted an egregious amount of supplies from the hospital pharmacy and flaunted them in front of Mycroft, no doubt seeking a reaction.

He didn’t get one.

And Mycroft remains there, shoulders hunched, curled in a waiting room chair. Thomas is at the door, ensuring Mr. Holmes is left alone. It’s a private hospital. It isn’t necessary.

In the back of his mind he realizes he’s scaring them a bit, but he can’t stop. He clung on to Greg in the ambulance, as much as the MI5 medical team would let him. There’s still bits of Greg’s shirt in his hand, cut off so they could get a better look at his ribs.

He would have forced his way into the surgery as well, sat there for the x-rays and MRI, but someone got him with a needle at some point, something potent enough to make him let go and sit.

“Mr. Holmes?” There’s a doctor in the door, standing beside Thomas as though he’s not sure he actually has permission to enter. “He’s coming around now. You can come back.”

He walks without telling his legs to move, following until there’s a bed before him with Gregory in it, still bruised but cleaned up of the blood. Mycroft feels himself crying again but doesn’t do anything to stop it. There’s no point. He has no idea where everything went so wrong. Gregory might still hate him. He might still go home and lock himself in his panic room. Alone.

_But Gregory will be safe._

“Gregory?”

 

*

 

For a long time, the soft and steady beep of nearby medical equipment has felt like Greg's only real anchor to the world. He's been floating somewhere on the surface of his own existence, pulled along by that quiet little beep. He's aware in the back of his mind of sedated pain - pain with a blanket thrown over it - and he knows he must be more hurt than he thought.

He's never felt so weak nor so quiet in his life.

His memories are scattered and frayed; trying to press them for details hurts. It seems the only thing to do now is lie quietly, listening to a machine beep out his heart for him.

Now and then, drifting in the numbness, he tries returning to the thought.

_I tried to kill Andy._

It doesn't feel real. He can pick it up and look at it, turn it over in his mind - memories of his own hands, memories of Andy's face - but it doesn't seem like they're really his thoughts.

They've got his name written on them.

But they can't really be his.

Drifting, lost in his own quiet, it's a moment before Greg realises the person at his bedside isn't a nurse come to check on him.

It's Mycroft.

He's sitting down - he's crying.

Greg gazes up at him, numb. He doesn't know what to think. It feels like his emotions have been weighted down at the edges, stopping them from sliding too far one way or the other. If he tried, he could feel grief; he could feel anger.

He's not sure he should try, though. He doesn't know if he'd survive it.

He draws a slow breath, taking his time to fill his chest.

"Hello," he mumbles.

_Why're you crying? Why are you here?_

 

*

 

One word, and Mycroft shatters. He sobs, almost collapsing onto Greg’s bed, curling up beside him, face in the thin sheet. He wants to cling- desperately, so desperately, but there are Gregory’s injuries to consider….

And far worse, he can tell from Gregory’s voice that his lover doesn’t want him there. That he is surprised Mycroft has bothered.

_Wrong. Still all wrong._

_What happened to you, my love?_

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to compose himself again, wiping his eyes in a heavy silence broken only by steady, rhythmic beeping.

“Gregory- I thought-“

He sniffs. _Pull yourself together, Mycroft, this is embarrassing._ In some vain bid for a sense of purpose, of tangible duties and tasks that will help, he gently adjusts the edge of the blanket that he’s sodden with his own tears.

_Useless, Holmes._

Part of him thinks he should just go. Just leave, and let Gregory have… whatever he needs. Mycroft will pay for it, but whatever he’s done, whatever Gregory hates him for, he likely deserves it.

More of him refuses to give up so easily.

“How do you feel?”

 

*

 

_I..._

Greg watches in silence as Mycroft cries. His chest aches; he doesn't understand. There's nobody here to see this - it's a private room, just the two of them.

Mycroft should be back in London by now.

_Fixing things,_ Greg thinks with an unsettling prickle of pain. _Covering his back._ God alone knows where Andy is. Greg half-expected to find a uniformed officer by the side of his bed when he woke up, making sure he didn't bolt.

Instead, Mycroft is here - crying - adjusting his blanket for him.

_How do I feel?_

Greg doesn't know where to start. It shows in his face, lost and pale in the face of his own emotions. If he wasn't so heavy with a sedative, he doesn't think he'd be able to cope with that question right now.

He takes a moment to answer, visibly distressed by Mycroft's tears.

"T-Tired. Sore." He hesitates, searching Mycroft's face as he tries to understand. "You're crying..."

 

*

 

Mycroft huffs half a sad laugh. “Yes. You’re injured. And I care about you.”

He wants to take Gregory’s hand, wants to hold him. He can’t. Not until he knows Gregory wants him.

“Gregory, I… I don’t know if she lied, or what she said about me, but I assure you- I haven’t- there’s never been anyone else. Not since you. Not once.”

His eyes red-rimmed, skim over his wounded lover- if he can still use that term- stitches. Bandages. Some things, like his ribs, will just take time and care.

Mycroft isn’t sure what he will do if Gregory asks him not to help. Asks him to go and never come back.

“My brother… my brother suggested that is what she convinced you of. He is often correct with such things.” He wipes his eyes again. Crying does nothing decent for pale features. His mother would be horrified. “He chinned your brother. I hope you don’t mind. I think he was saying something rather rude at the time, but I can’t be sure. You were on the ground… and I was not truly listening.”

 

*

 

Weak, his heart unguarded, Greg can't hide his instinctive reaction to hearing there's been no-one else. Disbelief and distress fill his eyes at once; he seems to shrink back into himself a little, as if Mycroft had suddenly displayed a flash of fangs. Tension tightens his jaw.

He listens, pale and silent, as Mycroft goes on.

At first he doesn't understand. It's easy to lose track of what he's being told - easy to forget Mycroft even _has_ a brother, he talks about him so little - but Mycroft has apparently spoken to him about this, asked his advice. Greg hadn't realised they were that close. There's something about Andy, being chinned. Bewildered Greg tries to fit the pieces.

_Your brother was - there?_

_How many people did you bring to -_

_Wait -_

_No - wait -_

Realisation breaks in Greg's face.

There's not a flicker of relief in it. His expression twists with despair and he starts to cry at once, his eyes gleaming with panicked tears.

"He's _your brother."_ The beep of his heart monitor hitches; a faint alarm begins somewhere outside the room. "That's your brother. The guy who - the guy in the crack house - _that's your brother - "_

 

*

 

_No- no-_

Gregory is crying, and there’s a shift in the tones of the beeping, the alarms outside the room. He doesn’t understand. He’s explaining, isn’t he? He isn’t like Karen. He did not run out with some other man.

_He thought… he thought- Sherlock?_

“Yes. He is... my brother.”

Mycroft is at a loss. For once, he does not have words to solve this. Gregory thought he was having an affair with _Sherlock?_

As his mind tries to process, the pieces slowly fall into place. All his work to hide Sherlock. The times he lied. The inferences Gregory must have made.

_Of course he thought you were having an affair, you fool._

What is he meant to say? There is no possible way to explain this. Nothing that will help.

_You let him think it. For months._

_He does deserve better._

“He is… frequently in some degree of trouble. Drugs. As you saw. Jail nearly killed him. He overdosed as soon as he got out. He’s been shuttling between rehabilitation centers since.” Mycroft’s words about Sherlock are rote and toneless. He’s never really talked about his brother before, not in any meaningful way. Not the weak parts.

“I did not want him near you until I was confident he was not using. He is… spiteful when he uses. Vindictive. He took his anger out on you anyway.”

Mycroft’s hands fold in his lap, idly toying the end of his tie just to have something to occupy them.

“I am sorry.”

 

*

 

Greg's sobs only grow more desperate as he hears. The shame and guilt and distress are overwhelming. _All this. All of this, and all along -_

Pushing closer hurts like hell. Pain wracks through parts of him he didn't realise until now were hurt - pain across his side, pain down one leg, pain as he tries to reach to touch Mycroft and he can't, restricted by sheets that are meant to keep him comfortable. All he can do is nuzzle against Mycroft as he cries, shaking with the force of it: his grief, his own stupidity.

For the first time, he lets himself feel something else too. Emotion scatters some of his voice - it's hard to speak at all, let alone while crying - but the coherent words are repeated. They're the ones which hurt the most.

"Why - why didn't you _say_ \- w-when he was there, when he came to the house - why d-didn't you tell me - _why didn't you say?"_

There comes a squeak from the door and a short sweep of external light as a nurse arrives in response to the alarm, glancing into the room in quiet concern. Her eyes move to Mycroft as the apparent source of the distress; she pauses, her hand on the door.

 

*

 

Mycroft doesn’t know what to do. Greg needs him- reached for him- and he went without a thought, now sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with the man he loves- the man he apparently broke- crying on him.

_Just goldfish compared to you, Mycroft,_ his mother’s voice whispers. _Don’t mind them. Pretty distractions, that’s all._

He closes his eyes. _Shut up._

The door opens, and he can see the nurse and the universal look of evaluation, trying to determine if he is a problem.

_Task._

It’s almost a relief to have something clearly helpful to do.

“Gregory- shh, love, I’m right here- can you lie back a bit? I’ll stay right here, but I don’t think all your cords like it….”

He glances at the nurse. “Might you… perhaps five minutes?”

The door closes again and he busies his hands, adjusting Gregory’s blanket and gently running his thumb over a span of unbruised shoulder.

_Why is so hard to answer? To be honest?_

_Gregory deserves honesty._

“Love… I didn’t tell you because I am… ashamed. Sherlock struggles, frequently, and- acts out- it’s my fault, really. If I’d intervened sooner, found him a better facility…. He has a brilliant mind, but he spends much of it looking for chemical augmentation.” Mycroft breathes shakily. _Christ, crying again?_ “I’m meant to be the smart one, you know. I should be able to fix it.”

 

*

 

Greg's tears soften as Mycroft pulls the blanket around him. His sobs grow quiet, shaking through him gently and leaving his mouth as no more than small gasps. At the brush of Mycroft's touch upon his shoulder, he closes his eyes. All his focus gathers to that small piece of contact; he lets it calm him.

His heart rate slows as he listens.

Shivering, he opens his eyes into Mycroft's.

"Like I'd have been appalled?" he whispers. His dry throat works as he swallows. "Like I don't deal with drugs everyday. F-Fuck me up. You should've trusted me."

He holds Mycroft's gaze, shaking.

"I mean it," he says. "You lied to me. _'Work'._ You know I'm a broken mess. You know what I went through. When I saw you carrying him into that car - and then you _lied_ to me - acting like you'd been at your desk all morning - "

_Shit. Shit, breathe._

_Slow._

"You're meant to be my hero. You're everything. _Everything._ I don't care if you're meant to be _'the smart one'._ I'd rather you spend life stumbling from one honest fuck-up to the next, so long as I can trust you. _I'd rather you fail than lie."_

His eyes burn with tears.

"I'll be there if you fail," he breathes. "I'll still love you if you fail. I can't be there if you _lie._ And for what it's worth? Your brother needs support, not a safety net. They're different. You're failing him by treating it like a secret you've got to cover up. You're failing yourself, struggling alone with that. I failed you, too. I'm a paranoid fucking wreck and I'm insecure and the pair of us are going the fuck to therapy. Your brother can come too. Why the hell not? The only one of us with any sense is the cat and she's probably sick and tired of our shit."

 

*

 

“I didn’t- didn’t want you to have to arrest him- or tell you that you shouldn’t, I-”

It _hurts_ to speak. It hurts in his throat, in his lungs, in his heart. It’s easier to coil into himself as he lets Gregory’s words run through him, lets the entire weight of it crash around him while his mind tries vainly to keep up.

_His hero._

_Good god. How? How can I be that for you after I’ve-_

“I failed you- how can you-”

Tears rise again, infuriating him as the blur his vision. _Weak._ His hands tighten on the sheets. His inability to _fail_ has been the primary wellspring of his entire _life._ Work, which has long been all-consuming. Caring for Sherlock. His parents….

_Therapy._

It’s not as though he’s never been told before this is something he should delve deeper into. He’s had a therapist. A sensible, useful therapist, even. But healthy romantic relationships were never something they delved into. There wouldn’t have been much of a point, before Greg.

_He wants to. He wants to fix it. Better it._

The thought makes him shake- it’s too hard to reconcile it with the lingering feeling that Gregory should not want him. That Mycroft is useless now. Worthless.

“I’m sorry,” he gets out, finally, bending so low on the bed that he’s almost laying down- but he stops himself. Gregory is too injured to curl up with, even if he wants it. _Needs_ it. “I love you, Gregory. I’ll go with you- or just myself- both- anything, Gregory. I can’t- I need you.”

He breathes, and it still feels like blades in his throat, but it’s stabilizing  even with hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I need you. I don’t want to fail you again.”

He bends his head, glancing up for permission, and gently kisses the small unwounded expanse of shoulder.

“How can you be the sensible one when you’re in hospital? I didn’t think that was allowed.”

 

*

 

" - _arrest_ him... Jesus - your family? You thought I'd go fetch my cuffs, tell you to stand aside? Myc... Myc, you were listening to ghosts..."

The only movement Greg can manage is to reach his head a few inches. He presses his cheek to Mycroft's - it hurts the bruising across his cheekbone, but it would hurt more not to. _Our pain,_ he thinks. A tremor passes through his body. _Our tears._

"I was listening to them, too. Should've been listening to each other. Instead I... Christ, just straight back there in an instant. Like it's the story of my life. Everything you and me have, everything we've done, just... s-straight out of my fucking head. Then Karen hit me with..."

_Jesus._

_Jesus, Andy._

Another shake runs through Greg's shoulders.

"C-Can't believe it. All this time. She held that, waiting to - when she knew it would just - and I..." He breathes in hard, fighting the surge of quiet panic which rises in his chest. "Jesus. I'm going to lose my job."

 

*

 

“No. Not if you don’t want to.”

Mycroft stretches out, very carefully, in the scant inches between Greg and the edge of his cot, resting his head on the same pillow. _Right here. Don’t strain yourself._

“Your brother did not need to be admitted- and if I recall rightly, his injuries are relatively minor. There’s a very plausible case for self-defense.”

Cautiously, he extends an arm behind Greg’s head, close enough to finger the ends of his hair.

“I wasn’t… I did not speak with him, but I am sure Anthea did. Or appointed someone to. She’s clever, it’s what I would have done if I…. If needed, I shall dredge up some employment contacts for him as appeasement. If you approve.”

He tilts closer, close enough that he can feel Greg’s warmth, even if he’s not yet sure where is safe to touch.

“There will be no record of this unless you want it, Gregory. I can make sure of it.”

 

*

 

_Self-defence,_ Greg thinks. He looks away from his lover's eyes, feeling strange and small and safe with Mycroft's arm around him. It wasn't self-defence. Everything who was there in that room knows it. It was attempted murder. A little longer, and there'd have been no 'attempted' about it.

For a few minutes of his life, Greg had wanted Andy to die. It had felt like the only course his pain could take.

His heart gives an unsettling thud, realising Karen had turned them the pair of them on each other like dogs - and she couldn't have known how that confrontation would play out. Presumably she didn't care. The outcome of Andy maimed or dead didn't matter to her. It would have been worth the benefits: Greg jailed, Mycroft implicated and questioned, Andy's wife betrayed and grieving at once.

_God help us._

Mycroft is right that there's a plausible case - plausible enough for a jury. Of the two of them, Greg had walked away by far the worse. The first punch might have been his, but the look on Andy's face as he'd slammed Greg back against the mirror wouldn't ever leave his memory. Andy will have a hard time pressing for murder. _Even harder,_ Greg thinks with quiet guilt, _if Mycroft supplies the lawyer._

The thought of Anthea dealing with this for now is strangely calming. Greg's never really spoken to Anthea at length - her focus will always be Mycroft - but he's always had an inexplicable amount of trust in her. If anyone in the world knows how to sort this, she will.

Breathing out, he returns his eyes to Mycroft's. Gentle, guilty gratitude softens his gaze.

"K-Kinda want it to go away." _Christ, I'm asking you to cover up attempted murder. I should be in a fucking cell._ "It's not going to happen again. This - s-situation. I promise. All I want is to go home and just - j-just - with you. I love you. I'm not a monster. I swear."

 

*

 

“Then it will go away.”

He can do that. A start of making things up between them. And in the meantime, make it very clear to Andy that it is in his best interests to remain silent.

Mycroft carefully edges closer. He shouldn’t feel so nervous about wishing to kiss Gregory- like it’s the very first time, only he wasn’t so nervous then as he is now. It feels like he doesn’t quite deserve the privilege, not yet.

Hopefully he will get there.

“You have never been a monster, Gregory.”

He leans closer still, lips scarcely brushing enough to call it a kiss- there will be time for more later, when he is certain nothing he does might cause Gregory pain.

“But we have both been quite foolish.”

The door opens again, and Mycroft glances over his shoulder to find the same nurse as before with something of a kind but exasperated look when she sees what position they’re in.

“I think your desire to go home, however, must be delayed slightly,” Mycroft says quietly. “I am probably meant to leave you to rest.”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes fill with distress.

"Don't go," he whispers. "Please. I won't rest unless you're here."

His heart monitor records a small but distinct increase in pulse, the gentle bleeps a little closer together.

"You _are_ home," he says. "You promised me. You said if ever I really need you, you'd be here. Don't leave me alone now. Please."

 

*

 

“I won’t, lovely. I won’t go.”

Mycroft looks at the nurse again, his eyes a combination of _please I love him_ and _madam you do not wish me to force this._

It’s a very particular sort of private hospital, after all. They know what manner of persons come here. But she is still a nurse and they have the lowest tolerance for nonsense across nearly all professions.

She sighs.

“Back into the chair, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Lestrade- let’s check on your pain levels, and then I expect you _both_ to sit quietly and let Mr. Lestrade sleep a bit. Yes? Good.”

Mycroft sinks slowly off the cot and drags the chair as close as he can, so he can still reach Greg’s hair. He smiles, sneaking a chastened schoolboy look to Greg as the nurse looks over the equipment and checks the IVs.

It will be slow. But they’ll be fine. And he will wait here until they both can go home.


	19. Chapter 19

_ Would I say Greg had a temper? _

Switching off the engine, Karen checks her lipstick in the rear view mirror. She likes this softer pink. So often it's a darker red or a bolder coral, but she's really enjoying this sugary shade. It makes her eyes look big.

_ Well, I... I didn't notice it at the time, but... I suppose some things did make him angry... _

She reaches into her bag, finds the lipstick and uncaps it, reapplying it carefully in a smooth and slow figure-of-eight. The silver shimmer twinkles in the reading light. It's dark outside the car; the city is settling for the night.

_ A lot of it seemed to come from his work. He dealt with murder and violence all day, then when he got home... I mean, I never thought he'd do something like this though... _

She presses her lips together, spreading the colour gently. She meets her own gaze in the mirror and her pupils grow.

_ His own brother. I still can't believe it. _

Capping the lipstick, Karen returns it to her bag and retrieves her perfume. Ralph Lauren Woman. It's new - one of the others got her it. He's a new one himself, lots of money and a dull wife who doesn't bother to make him spend it.

She spritzes her throat gently, closing her eyes. 

_ After Greg left me, I... I suppose I turned to Andy for comfort. His own marriage was in trouble, and he understood what I'd been through with Greg. But I should have known Greg wouldn't let me go that easily. _

_ Oh god, if only I'd known. It's so awful.  _

_ I'm so sorry to cry, I just... I can't imagine what Lizzie's going through... _

She slides her handbag over her arm, lets herself out of the car and locks it with a press of her keys. She won't be long. This one has been hinting he's falling in love with her, and it means she doesn't have to keep him interested with sex. She'll tell him she's just too upset and worried to stay the night - urge him to contact someone now, this second, before it's too late. 

She texted him a few hours ago.  _ 'If I thought a crime was going to happen, who would I tell?'  _ He'd leapt up at once, her shining white knight.  _ 'What crime, baby? You can tell me. I'm listening.' _

A few texts back and forth, stringing them out. Finally she'd said she would come round. He'd be up there waiting for her now, ready to listen, ready to drink it all up - ready to put on his serious voice, his grown-up frown and explain all about police procedure to her. Her big serious hero. He'd been useful from the get go, this one. He'd even broken into Holmes's house for her and brought back an old file of family memories. From there she'd found the drug addict brother; she'd pretended to be Lizzie, met him, learned a few useful things. She'd hoped he could have become part of her collection, but he'd been too fried and too strange to get even her most blatant hints.

She'd given up on Sherlock Holmes in the end. 

A nice idea - not worth the energy, though. You have to pick your battles.

This one is much more malleable. 

He doesn't know it, but he's about to bring it all together for her. It's quite an honour for him. She'll have to find a way to rid herself of him when all the fuss has died down, but until then he's worth a fresh coat of lipstick.

As she takes the concrete stairwell up to his flat, her heels echo in the cold quiet. It's amazing to think it's all come together so cleanly in the end. Prince Charming fucking someone else was a beautiful little gift from the universe indeed; she'd been planning to press on his need for control and see if he bled. As it's happened, he's been tremendously helpful.

_ And I didn't even have to sleep with him. _

_ I'm getting good, aren't I? _

Approaching Ryan's door, her face shifts into an expression of quiet worry. She knocks, wrapping both hands around the strap of her bag; as she waits, she brushes back a lock of her hair.  _ So worried,  _ she thinks.  _ So worried he'll do something silly. He was always so jealous, so hostile towards Andy. Oh Ryan, what if he does something... drastic? _

The door unlocks. It opens, and he's there. 

There's something not quite right in the way he looks at her - something a little stiff. He doesn't say anything. 

_ Strange. _

"I'm so sorry," she says, biting her lip. "I know it's late. I just... I-I didn't know who to turn to."

He holds the door open for her to enter, turning away. 

Analysing quietly, Karen steps inside his flat. The place smells of smoke; an open bottle of wine by the sofa catches her eye. 

"What's up?" Ryan asks, sitting back down on the middle seat and reaching for his glass. He's still not really looked at her. "Something to tell me?"

Carefully Karen takes a seat in one of his armchairs. She keeps her bag on her knee, gazing at him with rounded eyes even as her mind runs possibilities in the background. He's clearly not pleased to see her. He can be petulant sometimes, this one. He asks a lot. Tearfully threatening to leave always sorts him out, but she needs him to co-operate nicely now. There isn't really time for his fussing - the earlier she tips off the police, the worse it will look when they find whatever's left of Andy.

Which, of course, will be entirely Andy's fault. 

She asked him to leave his wife; he said no. He could have done the honourable thing but he chose not to, and now he'll regret it. Both Lestrades disappointed her in the end - this tedious faith in their own will - and it's rather poetic and pretty now to see them destroy each other. There's no feeling in the world like making people learn.

So long as Ryan doesn't now cause problems. 

She doesn't like the sulky expression; she doesn't need him to be truculent tonight. She needs him to be as pliable as the others or he'll spoil this, and she's waited long enough.

"I, um... s-spoke to Greg earlier. He left a load of angry voicemails on my phone, asking me to call him... so I did. And now I'm just so worried."

Ryan says nothing, drinking. 

Wary, masked beneath the trappings of anxiety, Karen fills the silence. 

"He found something out," she said. "S-Something I... I didn't think was any of his business, frankly. He'd already left me when it happened. But he was asking me so many questions on the phone, and I got the feeling he wouldn't stop until he'd heard the truth."

"Yeah?" Ryan drinks slowly, staring across the room. "What  _ is _ the truth?"

_ Dear god. I need you to be co-operative, you tedious little boy. This is the important part. I need you to tell your police friends I always knew he'd flip one day.  _

"This - i-isn't easy," she says.

"Try me."

_ What the hell does that mean?  _ "I was... c-close to his brother for a while. Just after the divorce. It meant very little and it was over in a flash. I was so lonely then - and after our marriage, every small scrap of comfort felt like everything. But Greg is still so jealous, so determined I still belong to him, and the things he was saying to me on the phone, I... I'm scared he's going to hurt someone. Please say you believe me, Ryan. I can't stop thinking about it."

In response, Ryan Stringer reaches down beside the sofa.

Without a word he picks up a thick green binder. He places it on the coffee table between them, skims a thumb down the side to a post-it note, and flips it open.

Karen looks down, her heart tightening.

_ Andy.  _ Driving license photograph - address, phone numbers - career history - criminal record. 

She says nothing, trying to think. As he jams a cigarette in his mouth, Ryan flips the page in the binder and reveals photographs of her car outside Andy's house, print-outs of their text messages, transcriptions of their voicemails.

"D'you know how many are marked 'current'?" Ryan's voice says. Karen is hardly aware of his existence anymore. She's staring at the file, her heart pounding. She watches Ryan run his thumb along the edge of clear document wallets. "Nine. There's notes at the back. They say, 'nine we know of'." 

He skims down to another post-it note, slips his finger into the stack and turns.

His own Scotland Yard ID photo appears. There are estimated dates for when he and Karen became involved, various photos of her leaving his flat, and a highlighted section which states it's highly unlikely he's aware of any of her other lovers.

Karen doesn't speak. She stays completely still, trying to ignore the waves of hot and cold now spreading over the back of her neck.

"A woman brought it," Ryan says. "About an hour ago... pencil skirt and brown curls. Handed it to me without a word and walked away."

Karen begins to understand.  _ Mycroft. Gathering information. So he can... _

She thinks in desperation for a lie - any lie, any explanation - but there are none. They've included photographs. She can't explain photographs. She can't explain the transcripts either, and he'll know they are genuine. He'll have checked their own conversations and verified they're accurate. He's smart enough at least to do that.

There's nothing she can say. 

Mycroft has... laid a trap. A trap for her to fall into.

_ I won't fall. _

Shaking, Karen stands up.  _ I will not fall.  _ This line is now dead but there are others. An unexpected setback. That's all this is. 

Numb, her head echoing, she hurries towards the door. Mycroft has been clever. She needs to think. 

As she pulls it open, she hears Ryan get up from the sofa. She speeds out into the darkened hallway, her pulse climbing. She's only just reached the top step when he catches up with her.

He grabs her arm and starts to shout. She screams at him to get off her; he shouts back. Their voices echo against the concrete, rising up through the stairwell, and she slaps him to let go. He rages she's a vicious fucking bitch and he lunges - to grab her, she thinks.

She jerks backwards from his reach.

Her heel skids on the concrete. She staggers, lashing out for a railing suddenly no longer there - and in the same moment she realises she's falling, it flashes through her head that he _ pushed her. _

The smash of the first step against her skull shocks out the thought. 

She feels herself twist as her vision blacks, still falling, skidding, concrete scraping, sharp and falling and falling and - 

_ \- crack.  _

 

*

 

Across the city, Anthea smooths her skirt and checks her phone in the ladies restroom in the hotel in which the conference is taking place. There’s pictures in already, the binder has been recovered, and the police haven’t even arrived yet. 

Well, let no one say her people are slow.

In an encrypted file, well out of the reach of the rest of the security services, she checks her notes.

_ Stringer, Ryan: Psychological Assessment. _

Near the bottom, there’s a few key lines suggesting the likelihood that he lash out physically if his perceived status as a dominant male is threatened. These, she deletes with several careful taps of a nail. Just in case.

The hospital she has ensconced her erstwhile superior and his lover in is very private. She can give them the night to recover before delivering it herself in the morning. They’ve earned that. 

“I thought you wouldn’t be working.” The accented English is enough to make her smile without looking up as she checks her lipstick in the mirror.

“Hello, Juli.”

“Thea.” Anthea turns. Juliette, as always, looks ravishing. “I thought we were meant to have a few drinks before this… song and dance routine. Where were you?”

“Work, darling.”

“Work? Your  _ work _ is not here. I can spot him a mile away.”

“No. I’m him tonight. More or less.”

“You?” Juliette makes a mildly surprised face. “I thought you wished to go back into the field, not laze away in an office.”

“I like the office, it turns out.” 

“Too dull for a woman like you.” She steps closer. Her fingers linger on the curve of Anthea’s hip. “You should come with me.”

“What, up to your room? Later, if you like.”

“No. Algiers.”

Anthea lifts a brow. “Algiers? Why Algiers?”

Juli steps back, and Anthea can tell from the fold of her arms that she’s expecting Anthea to be upset with whatever she says. “I’ave taken another field position. Algiers. Four year rotation. I know your side has an opening there as well.” 

“In  _ Algiers?”  _ Anthea cannot fathom  _ why _ Juliette would think she would want a post in  _ Algiers _ , of all places. “Juli, I like London. I’m loyal to London.”

“No, you’re loyal to  _ him. _ You aren’t thinking of your own career! Will you be a secretary your entire life?”

“I am a deputy section head, Juliette. I  _ like _ my work. And here I usually don’t get shot at.”

Juliette sniffs. “Fine. But when you cease limiting yourself, you’ll know where to find me.”

Anthea could get angry. She could be emotional. 

But tonight she is standing in for Mycroft. Any action she takes will reflect on him. And god knows Sir Edwin has ways of finding out any lapses in judgement. Mycroft will have enough on his plate when Edwin and Smallwood good ahold of him. She won’t add to it.

She lets ice pour into her veins instead. 

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Juliette. But I do appreciate the offer.” She walks past her lover- ex-lover, now- without a single twitch to her carefully appointed charming smile. 

“Ah, then you will be like him, then! Dying cold and alone!” 

Anthea glances back. “He’ll be doing neither of those. Nor will I.”

She imagines it might hurt later. Part of her considers whether it should be concerning that she doesn’t really feel anything at all. It’s merely an... inconvenience. 

The matter can be contemplated later. For now, she has to stand in for Mycroft. As best she is able. She winds through the room and lands beside Lady Smallwood, who offers her a drink. “Well?”

Anthea channels Mycroft as she launches into her report: who in the room is leaning what way, who will be susceptible to leverage to ensure British interests are secured. 

Hopefully, it will be enough to buy him a bit of time before the wolves circle in.

 

*

 

Sometime in the night, the sounds of alarms going off snaps Mycroft out of a dead sleep. For a second he is in full alert mode, looking for the door to his panic room and becoming even more alarmed that it isn’t there.

Then he remembers where he is.

They’d let him have another cot brought in and set up next to Gregory, so Mycroft can lay beside him and keep him company- not quite touching. He’s still not sure which points will hurt the least, and it’s even harder to tell in the dark.

There’s a brief commotion in the hallway as the overnight medical team rushes to whatever room’s alarms are going off. It isn’t Gregory, but the noise is enough to make his love shift restlessly and frown.

“Love?”

His hand drifts back to Greg’s hair. The hair won’t hurt him.

“Don’t mind the noise, love. It’s not for us. Do you need anything?”

 

*

 

_ Bloody hell, what've I pulled out?  _ Greg's been trying not to move too much - but the uninjured parts of him now hurt from not moving. As he stirs, trying to figure out which drip line is no longer connected, fingers brush through his hair.

The world and all its worries shrink to that one sensation. 

It floods Greg's every vein with calm. He leans into the stroke before he's even fully awake, shivering a little. The back of his head still pulses with pain at the slightest pressure; the front wants nothing more than to be stroked a little longer.

"Thought it was me," he mumbles. "Thought I'd... tugged something out..."

He opens his eyes - darkness, hard to focus through.

Mycroft.

_ God. _

It feels like his heart opens at the sight.  _ God, there you are.  _ This moment will be a memory. Years from now, he'll look back at these days and remember Mycroft lying beside him in the darkness, watching over him. That's what matters.

"Just need you," he says. His mouth twists with apologetic humour, his eyes bright and sleepy. He knows it's cheesy, but it feels like they've been through enough to justify cheesy. It also happens to be true. "Keep thinking Marmalade'll be looking for us. Trying to find us, to bring us both to bed."

 

*

 

Mycroft smiles. Humour returning is a good sign.

“Mmm. She probably is. We’ll likely both be in trouble when we get home for not giving her sufficient notice.” He does hope she will not be too upset, though. Not with the somewhat odd hours they usually keep anyway. As long as they get back soon.

“Here, Anthea sent me this an hour or so ago….” He slips his phone out and turns it to show Greg- Marmalade is sitting in Anthea’s lap and gleefully eating a bit of meat out of a finely manicured hand. “I think she may have run off with some of the catering from the reception. Putting it to good use.”

He can’t quite bring himself to care that he missed it. His only regret is not being able to take Gregory with him and see him in his beautiful new suit.

They’ll simply have to find another opportunity for him to wear it.

“If the hospital allowed it, I would have brought her here, you know. Apparently they’re willing to make exceptions for very minor officials flouting their visitation policy but animals are a step too far.”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes shine gently in the darkness.

"Not sure she'd have liked it here," he murmurs. "She wouldn't like you in a separate bed, for a start. That'd be the first thing she'd change. Next, she'd pull out all these tubes in me..."

His gaze trails across Mycroft's face, just enjoying the sight of him close like this - the middle of the night, a hospital room, and he's still here.  _ Still in love with me... still next to me, looking at me like that.  _ It's more comforting than anything Greg could imagine.

"Can't wait to see her," he says, softly. "I'll - feel like the worst is over, when I can see her."

He stirs a little, his expression tightening as he loosens one arm from the sheets. He bites his cheek and pushes through the pain, ignoring the small spikes of discomfort from various injuries. It'll be worth it.

He reaches out, resting his hand on the edge of his bed - his fingers open, hopeful. Two are splinted together; bruises blacken his knuckles.

"M'sorry I'm a mess, darlin'..." He hesitates, pulling his lip. "Nobody's offered me a mirror yet."

 

*

 

“Nonsense. You are handsome as ever.”

Very carefully, Mycroft reaches and takes his lover’s hand, making accommodations as he links his fingers in Greg’s for the splint and the worst of the bruising. 

“You will tell me if this hurts, won’t you?”

With his other hand he adjusts Greg’s blanket and sheet, making sure that the rest of him is still nicely tucked in and warm. Greg does look  _ injured _ , of course, but Mycroft would love him no matter how he looked. 

_ All he wants is a hand to hold. _

He can’t bear to think of what might have happened if he’d arrived later. If he’d let Karen get into his head enough to stop him from pursuing Gregory. If she’d gotten to Gregory enough to make him follow through on killing Andy.

_ Never again.  _

They’ll find a therapist. A good one. He knows their love is strong, it’s only themselves they must work on, the pieces broken a long time ago that never quite healed the same. Such things can be bolstered and strengthened. They’ll be far more formidable together than they were apart.

“I love you, darling.”

 

*

 

"I'll tell you," Greg murmurs, as their fingers curl together as best they can. "I promise, love. I'm okay for now." 

He watches Mycroft rearrange the blankets around him, fond and grateful. It's very easy to rest in his partner's care; every small gesture towards his comfort makes him feel safer and safer. 

"Kinda hoping I can lose some of the monitors soon. I know they're important, but... I'm looking forward to stretching out a bit."

He lifts his gaze to Mycroft's eyes, smiling almost shyly. 

"I love you too, gorgeous... more right now than I ever did. Thank you for looking after me."

 

*

 

“Fairly certain you’ll be free of some of them in the morning, beautiful. Simply precautions, most of them.” 

Mycroft curls his face close enough to place a gentle kiss to Greg’s cheek. “I would not dream of leaving you. And I shall stay until you are free to go as well.”

They remain there for some time, whispering to each other and trading off on quiet dozing until the first glimmers of dawn light drift in through the curtains. Mycroft is off his cot and getting ready to make inquiries with the nursing staff about breakfast options when there’s a quiet knock on the door. 

It’s Anthea. He takes it at first as a simple visit to check in before he gets a good look at her carefully composed face, so determinedly neutral. 

His eyes narrow. “What is it?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's tone catches Greg's ear. He manages to turn his head enough to see who it is. The sight of Anthea, normally a reassurance, makes him tense - it's something in the sheer neutrality of the expression. They're about to hear something they weren't expecting to hear.

There's one obvious person who causes things like that.

Before Anthea says a word, Greg knows he's about to hear the name Karen. He braces himself at once, trying to fight off a thousand horrifying guesses as to what she's done.  _ Has she gone to the police?  _ is the worst.  _ Told them she gave me a motive for attempted murder? _

Calmly Anthea explains.

Greg's brain, preparing itself to deal with the details of Karen's latest attack against them, hears the words  _ 'she is dead'  _ and assumes, wildly,  _ she has made herself dead in order to cause trouble.  _ This is Karen's new plan: be dead. How can they possibly have expected that? How can they defend against it? She has now put her ultimate master-plan into action by taking the initiative of dying, and it's only her first step in some horrifying chain of events. She has her next move all laid out in detail and it's going to ruin them.

He can hear Mycroft asking questions, but his mind doesn't seem to be matching the words to their meaning. It's locked up, trying to understand.  _ How is she going to use this against us? Why has she chosen to be dead? _

He starts to panic, realising it's not as mad as it first seems.  _ She's killed herself. She's blamed us somehow.  _ It would be terrifyingly Karen. It would be her masterpiece - her own death wielded like a nuclear weapon, one final blast and they're all going down with her. She'd have done it with a smile.

Greg tries to focus into the discussion now taking place around him - Mycroft's calm and comprehensive questions, Anthea's equally calm answers. The language of his own profession reboots some key processor in his brain, and he listens numbly to talk about someone in custody. There's been a full admission made. Neighbours emerged from their flats to find an unidentified 'him' sobbing over her body. He pushed her. He was crying it in a panic:  _ 'I pushed her, I pushed her'.  _ No lawyer in the world can save him now.

The entirety of Greg's skin prickles with waves of heat and then cold. 

_ She's faked it,  _ he thinks.  _ She must have. Somehow. This is all... this is just her next plan... _

As he hears Mycroft clarify that Karen's identity has been confirmed beyond all doubt, he realises his partner must be travelling the same tracks of thought as him, just faster and calmer. 

Anthea says there's no doubt in the matter. It's Karen, and she is dead.

And Ryan Stringer is in custody, begging to see his family's solicitor. Overnight his story's shifted to claim he saw her start to fall and tried to grab her, but they have enough witnesses from the scene to prove otherwise.

Karen's dead.

And she didn't mean to be.

Ryan's apartment has been searched. There's nothing been found to suggest anyone else was involved. One of the neighbours said she heard the two of them out on the landing, screaming at each other, and she's prepared to swear before a court she heard Ryan shouting about other men. Karen's phone has been recovered from her body. A swift scan through her text messages will produce all the evidence a jury could ever need.

It's over.

Struggling to process, Greg realises he's glad he got to witness this discussion. His partner looks as shocked as he feels. Mycroft is handling it better, but Greg can see it in his face. He tries to imagine what would have gone through his mind, waking up later in the morning to find Mycroft at his bedside saying,  _ 'Darling, Karen has died in a fortuitous accident.' _

Greg supposes he'd have no room to protest. 

He tried to kill Andy last night; if Mycroft had now arranged Karen's death as a get well soon present for him, they'd only be equal.

_ Better than a stuffed bear at least. _

_ Oh Jesus, don't joke. No black humour. Not now. _

_ Christ, she's - she's dead - _

_ Holy fuck -  _

Greg watches Mycroft, pale, waiting quietly for the questions to stem so he can have his partner's eyes.  _ How are we reacting to this? Christ, please show me. I don't know what to do with my face. I don't know what to think. _

He now understands Anthea's pristinely neutral expression as she came in.

 

*

 

Mycroft considers the facts. Considers her impressive ability to be entirely neutral.

Considers what he himself knows she is capable of.

_ Plausible deniability.  _

She’s giving him that. He can’t be sure. Cannot know. Cannot ask. It is a blessing, in its way. It won’t be a lie if Gregory ever asks if he knew. 

_ Does it matter? She’s gone. She can’t hurt him anymore. If anything I should be giving Anthea a medal. _

If Greg ever asks, Mycroft can tell him what he suspects. Maybe Anthea will get a fine meal out of it. “Outside of this room, it will behoove all of us to simply repeat what a tragedy it is, and so forth.”

“Inside this room, I… I am relieved.” He reaches for Greg’s hand.  _ She can’t get to you now. _

_ You’re free. _

“And if anyone wishes to say good riddance… I shan’t tell.”

 

*

 

Greg's fingers slide between Mycroft's without a moment's hesitation. More and more is falling into place in his mind; as he speaks, he finds his gaze moving to Anthea.

_ You had the measure of her... didn't you? _

"Karen knew I was - angry," he says, a little pale. "Yesterday, when she left my flat. She must've hung around. Seen me get into the car."

He can barely remember that moment. It feels like he was possessed. He can remember the sight of his own hands on the steering wheel, but little else.

"She must've known what she'd... pushed me into thinking. Knew where I was going. And she wanted to get her story to the police first - make it seem like she'd predicted it - then if - i-if it had happened, it'd play into her story. She'd be right there at the heart of it, where she wants to be."

His grip tightens on Mycroft's hand. He turns to his partner, paling.

"She'd have dragged you into it," he says. "She'd have found a way. I'd have gone down, and you'd - y-you'd be - holy _ shit,  _ if you hadn't been there - "

 

*

 

“She didn’t. She didn’t. It’s alright.”

Mycroft shifts closer, wishing he could wrap Gregory up in his arms.  _ Soon. _ He settles for a chaste kiss to Greg’s forehead, in a spot that is not quite so bruised. “Whatever she wanted, whatever she thought she’d gain, it doesn’t matter.”

His eyes drift up, considering Anthea once more. 

“She cannot win the games she was playing if she’s dead.”

Anthea regards him in silence that speaks enough. He nods, barely perceptible. “Thank you. Would you mind, since you’re here- we were about to roust a nurse regarding breakfast….”

She nods, grasping the idea immediately that he might like a moment alone with Greg. “Of course, sir.” She is as quiet departing as she was entering, vanishing with unhurried steps down the hall.

“Gregory,” Mycroft brushes a hand through his hair, shifting a few strands that had stuck to him in the night back to their usual wildness.

“Are you alright?”

 

*

 

"I-I'm fine. Just... just struggling to..." As Mycroft's fingers stroke through his hair, Greg feels their gentleness filter into his blood to start calming him. The sensation is as potent as any drug. He draws a breath, using it to prepare his body for discomfort.

He shifts, just enough to press his forehead to Mycroft's. He lays his hand on Mycroft's cheek - his fingers brush there, weary and loving.

_ Fuck. I want to go home. _

"Can't really believe it," he mumbles. "All this time. All the - the things she... and for it to be Stringer..."

She'd hate that. Some cocky little upshot she was only using to spy on Greg, shoving her down the stairs in a rage.  _ Christ.  _

Of all the demeaning ways to meet her end.

Hesitating, Greg meets his lover's eyes. He holds them for a moment, his gaze soft.  _ Honesty,  _ he thinks.  _ Honesty now. You and me, and honesty in everything. _

"If someone had tipped off Stringer," he says, "about the other men - on purpose, knowing Karen would head for him - they'd be the reason I'm not in a cell right now. Still have my job. The reason we can go home and sort ourselves out."

Heat fills his eyes.

His voice stays perfectly steady.

"I'd want them to know I'm grateful," he whispers, searching Mycroft's gaze. "I'd want someone to thank them for me."

 

*

 

A flicker of a smile passes over Mycroft’s face. It’s gone in a second, replaced by an appropriately solemn expression, but it was certainly there.

_ My clever detective. _

Of course Greg can see it. Of course he already knows. Mycroft doesn’t know why he ever would have assumed he wouldn’t. He meets his partner’s eyes with serious ease, conveying their complete mutual understanding.

“Hypothetically speaking, I am inclined to offer a vast amount of gratitude for such a thing. On behalf of us both.”

_ We’ll share this, my love. We’ll both know. _

Mycroft would be lying if he said he felt any trace of guilt at all.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

_ I am so glad it wasn’t you. For her or Andy. _

They get a little longer, gently embracing, before a nurse appears, ready to extricate Greg from some of his wires and administer a few tests that will tell them how long he’ll need to stay. Mycroft shifts out of the way, accepting a coffee from Anthea when she returns. “When we are home you ought to come up for dinner,” he says quietly. 

_ Thank you. _

She smiles, the crook of it wry in a way that means  _ I would have given you this one for free.  _ “I suppose that is acceptable.”


	20. Chapter 20

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

 

It's been two nap-times since lunch - which means it's time to check on them both.

Though they're very good at looking after themselves, Marmalade has taken her duty of care especially seriously over the last two weeks. When Papa finally brought Daddy home to her, he smelled of disinfectant and blood and somewhere strange. For several days he was too sore even for cuddles.

She worried at first, distressed that something had made Daddy quiet and tired. He took a lot of naps, which she helped him with. He spent a lot of time with Papa, having the fur on his head stroked; Papa read to him quietly from a book called _The Hobbit._ When he finally started walking around again, Papa stayed very close to make sure he was alright - and whenever Papa had to leave for a little while, Marmalade took the watch.

Together, she and Papa have made Daddy better.

And he's feeling much better now.

She knows it because she hears him laughing all the time. She often finds the pair of them in Papa's office in the middle of the afternoon, drinking tea together and talking. Daddy is back to cooking dinner again now. This is excellent news: though Papa gives the best chin tickles, Daddy lets her test the dinner as he makes it.

They are both very good humans. She tells them so all the time.

It's been nice to have them around during the day.

Last night, when it was time to sleep, Daddy put her gently in her bed on the landing with Long Monkey. He kissed her nose and said some soft human things to her, rubbing down her back - then, for the first time in two weeks, he and Papa closed the door for a while. She's glad they're having their closed-door time again. It means things are getting back to normal, and her humans are happy once more. It's all she could want.

As she pads through the house, looking for them, she tops up her scent on the doors and the furniture she passes. It's still nice she can do this to her things, and know they'll still be her things when she comes back to them later. Nothing will ever smell of anyone else. _My couch, my cupboard. My chair._ This is her house, where she looks after Daddy and Papa. That will never have to change now.

They're not in the kitchen, which is a shame - but she can smell human food, and the oven is warm, which means they've been here lately. Up on the counter, one of Daddy's strange human creations is resting with a large slice taken out of it. It smells of sugar and chocolate and fruit, and other things they like but she doesn't understand. She supposes it makes them happy. She just wishes Daddy would put a little bacon in them now and then.

She follows the smell of food along the corridor, trilling hopefully, then catches the sound of their voices in the lounge up ahead.

As she slips around the door, marking it _mine,_ she spots them at last. They're sitting on the couch together in the sunshine and eating Daddy's chocolate creation from a shared bowl. He's feeding it to Papa with a grin, watching Papa lick the fork. They're in a world of their own, so wrapped up in each other that they don't even realise she's arrived.

She chirps to announce herself, her tail rising - and as their faces turn towards her, beaming, she hurries over to see them.

With a perfect spring she jumps into Papa's lap. Loving hands reach at once to greet her, petting her. Daddy's thumb strokes back her ear.

Purring, she nestles into Papa's chest.

Happiness glows beneath her fur.

_Mine._

 

*

 

“Hello darling,” Mycroft fluffs her, feeling the purrs reverberate through his chest.

“Do you think she worked out we were eating without her, love? I’m sorry sweetheart- no chocolate for kittens. Perhaps we can find you something with a bit of meat later.”

It’s been relaxing, staying at home so much, taking charge of the domestic tasks- he’d even made breakfast a few times the way Greg likes it, with an extra bit of bacon for Marmalade.

Once he even allotted a piece for himself.

Edwin had nearly lost his top when Mycroft first came back in to work for a mere half-day, but Mycroft was more than happy to point out the family sick leave policies in their HR handbook, as well as making a very pointed remark about his accumulated holiday time. It was enough to stave Edwin off while Mycroft executed a plan he should have enacted a very long time ago, leveraging a great deal of his political connections.

He expects the results of his planning to bear fruit by the end of the week. MI-1 will be disbanded and the staff separated into a new unit not under the umbrella of the security services. Mycroft will report to no one except himself, and his team will effectively become a consulting agency for the government that can allocate their skills as he sees fit. There will even be money in it, as the CIA has already expressed interest in in sending some dollars to their allies in exchange for Mycroft’s consultation on several matters across the Atlantic.

They will have to bring their problems to him, however. He has no intention of leaving Britain for the moment unless Gregory is coming with him.

Gregory, who has been ruthlessly tempting him with chocolate.

“Another, please?” he glances hopefully in the direction of Greg’s fork.

 

*

 

"I hoped you'd like it," Greg says, grinning, and cuts off another neat triangle of black forest gateau for Mycroft. It feels incredible to be baking again. Small things like making food for Mycroft are healing him faster than weeks and weeks in hospital could ever have done. The more normality returns, the better he feels - and the more normality then returns.

As he feeds Mycroft the cake, his eyes bright, he holds the fork steady to make sure none drops. He doesn't want Marmalade either to gobble some up and be poorly, or end up with sticky cherry sauce in her fur. They'll never get it out.

"I'll put the recipe in my file," he says, watching his lover chew. "Definitely a winner... I'll put a piece aside for Anthea, too. She must be celebrating as much as you."

Greg doesn't know too many specifics. He has a feeling they'd be far beyond his comprehension, even if Mycroft took several hours to sit him down and explain in detail. He knows Mycroft is gaining a great deal more authority in how he runs his department - and that's enough for Greg. His partner has been more happy in the last few days than Greg has ever seen him.

_And it only took two murders... one attempted, one completed._

It feels wrong somehow that things have changed so much for the better. Greg supposes any other permanent end to Karen's pursuit of them would have made them just as happy; it's her fault that only death was enough to stop her.

As for Andy, Greg hasn't heard a word.

He suspects Andy is being monitored in some way - watched, to ensure he's no harm to them - but his brother is now one of many things Greg is content to place in Mycroft's hands.

All their trust has returned. It feels as if it's flourishing around them like a spring garden; nothing is hidden anymore. Two weeks of Mycroft working from home has been as good for Greg's soul as two weeks lying together on a beach - with the added joy that Marmalade can enjoy their closeness, too.

Before he has some more cake, Greg takes the chance to lean down and kiss her nose. She chirps in delight and reaches a paw for his chest, her pink pads splayed.

He scoots closer, grinning, sliding his arm around Mycroft's shoulders. His damaged hand rests there out of the way.

"There y'go, princess. I'm right here." Even as Marmalade presses near his broken rib, Greg can't bring himself to stop her. The twinge is more than worth it. "Three o'clock cuddle time, mm? We've got to keep to schedule."

Her purr thickens and she squirms, presenting her tummy for someone to rumple.

 

*

 

“They do say children benefit from firm routines,” Mycroft notes as he fluffs her belly. He’ll have photos of her in his new office, and Greg as well. Personal touches. And for once no one can complain it’s a security risk, because his new office will be nearly impossible to enter without permission granted directly by himself or Anthea.

Sherlock might still find a way in, but Mycroft so far has been inclined to keep his proviso that no one shoot him on sight. Thomas trundled him off from the hospital to rehab with only a minor amount of grumbling, and though he had not heard from his brother he is aware the closed-ward portion of the experience has ended, and Sherlock is now permitted to come and go so long as he makes his mandated sessions.

Mycroft has not heard anything from the surveillance flags or Sherlock directly, which he is choosing to take as a tacit apology for the part he played. It’s probably the best he’s going to get.

“I do want you to appreciate, Gregory Lestrade, that no one else could convince me to have dessert in the middle of the day. _Before_ supper.” He presses a soft kiss to Greg’s cheek. “You’re a terrible influence.”

 

*

 

Greg swallows his mouthful of cake with a smile, glowing a little at the soft kiss. It’s not hard to think why he feels so close to Mycroft today - two weeks without making love weren’t easy. Greg would have been happy to risk it earlier, but Mycroft’s chivalrous concern for his healing process brooked no argument.

“It no longer counts as dessert if it’s in the middle of the day,” he says, dividing a piece off for Mycroft. He holds it carefully to his partner’s mouth to take. “It’s just a small indulgence shared by two people who love each other. I think that makes me a pretty _good_ influence.”

His eyes sparkle as he watches Mycroft eat, feeling warmth rise in his chest at the sight. He loves seeing Mycroft enjoy something - especially something Greg has made him.

“Besides,” he says, fondly. “An important part of our daily exercise has restarted again. Means we have some extra calories to budget.”

 

*

 

“Ah, our _exercise_ routine, is it.” Mycroft’s eyes glitter. “How fortunate I have acquired a combination in-house chef _and_ a personal trainer.”

His hand drifts behind Greg’s head, curling through the hair at his nape. He’s almost of a mind to suggest that perhaps a light mid-afternoon “workout” might be in order, before a gentle tone sounds across the room.

The doorbell rings so rarely Mycroft frequently forgets what it even sounds like. He gently shifts Marmalade over to rest in Greg’s lap. “One moment, lovely- apologies, your grace, your humble servant shall return.”

He walks down the steps expecting a delivery- part of Greg’s recovery has resulted in a sudden increase in the amount of cooking paraphernalia and cat supplies in the house- but the face before him is surprisingly familiar, and one that engenders a number of immediate warm feelings for her consistently steady presence in his lover’s life.

“Serg- Sally. Have you to come to visit Gregory? Why don’t you come in and I’ll fetch you a plate. Gregory’s made cake.”

 

*

 

Marmalade chirps as Mycroft leaves the room, then turns her wide green eyes to Greg.

"He won't be long, darlin'," he says, smiling, and gathers her into his arms like a baby. She squirms, wriggling to offer her tummy upwards. "Might be another present for you, mm? 'Cause you've not had nearly enough presents this week."

As he ruffles her belly, she extends a paw and presses it against the tip of his nose. Greg's smile spreads from ear-to-ear.

"I love you too, princess."

This is the scene which greets Sally Donovan as she enters the lounge, delighted to find herself holding a large piece of cake.

Greg grins at once, unable to remember the last time he was so glad to see her. "Sal...!"

He moves to settle Marmalade to one side on a cushion - Sally intervenes.

"God, no, don't move her - and don't you dare move, either. You've been in the wars." She comes over, putting her cake on the table. "You okay for hugs yet?"

"Round the shoulders," Greg grins. "Watch out for the cat and the broken rib, and we'll be fine."

Sally laughs, leans over the couch and gives him a slow squeeze.

"S'good to see you, Sal," Greg says, leaning into her. Marmalade sniffs with interest at Sally's pink, purple and blue patterned scarf, intrigued by the tassels now dangling just within reach. "Just dropped by?"

"Hope you don't mind," Sally says. "I was nearby chasing up an inquiry, thought I'd call in on my way." She takes a seat in a chair nearby, reaching gladly for her cake. "Your fella said you made this - did you really? Looks delicious."

"I did indeed. Chose the right time to pop round, didn't you?"

Marmalade chirps, wanting to be involved. Greg gives her a grin, tickling under her chin.

"This is the lady of the house," he explains, as Sally watches with a smile. "Marmalade. Marmalade, say hello to Sally."

_"Brrrrp?"_

"I know, cute stuff. He's coming back soon, I promise. I think he's making tea."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s phone pings as the kettle begins to boil- Anthea, with some papers to sign. _I suppose it’s a good thing today’s “exercise” has been delayed._ Otherwise he’d end up with Anthea breaking in to make sure they’re both still alive.

[15:17] _Come up, we have cake._

She has all the keys anyway, it’s not like she needs to ring. She only texts first to ensure she’s not walking in on anything.

Her heels click up the stairs while he’s pouring for four. “Here- papers on the table, please, here’s one for you, and can you take this to Sally in the lounge?”

She blinks as she suddenly finds herself carrying two cups and a plate of cake. “Wow, black forest? He’s getting ambitious.” A grin crosses her lips. “Can you ask him to do something with limoncello?”

“Already in the recipe trial phase, my dear.” He winks as she laughs gleefully. “It’s like living in one of those baking contests, only I win every time.”

He follows her into the lounge, tossing some toys off the other side chair as Anthea greets Sally warmly and hands off her tea. “You both have excellent timing, you know. There’s not a sign out front I should worry about, is there? Free cake inside?”

 

*

 

"I took it down on the way in," Sally says, grinning. "More cake for us that way." She takes the mug from Anthea with both hands and a grateful look, her eyes bright. "Thanks - nice to see you again. How're things?"

_Again?_ Greg thinks. He tries to keep his mild surprise off his face. He hadn't realised Sally and Anthea knew each other - Sally's certainly never mentioned anything. He turns to Mycroft as his partner joins him on the couch again, attempting to convey with his eyes, _when did this happen?_ \- but before he can ask, Marmalade butts in with a happy trill. She squirms from Greg's cuddle to reach Mycroft again, wanting to greet him after his long absence. It was nearly five minutes, after all, and he needs to be resettled next to Greg.

"So," Sally says, smiling over her tea. "How're you feeling? On the mend?"

"Yeah, much better - thanks. I can just about look in the mirror again without grimacing, at least."

Sally takes a drink. "Good," she says, and bites the corner of her lip. "Can I ask something? Seeing as we're all friends."

Greg hesitates, cake halfway to his mouth. "Sure," he says. "Go on."

His sergeant raises an eyebrow. "A 'minor car accident'."

_Ah._

Greg chews and swallows his mouthful of cake, buying himself time. "Yep."

"With a car that also punched you in the face?" Sally checks, tilting her head to get a better look at his fading black eye.

Greg can't fight a smile.

"Taught you well," he says. "This is why I'm off work until it fades. It's - maybe more complicated than that. But there's already enough for Scotland Yard to gossip about right now."

"What actually happened?" she asks.

It's not the full truth, Greg thinks - but it's more truth than the rest of their colleagues will ever hear. He trusts her. "D'you remember Andy?"

Sally's expression doesn't move. "Your brother."

"Mm. Bit of an argument."

"Christ," she says, her eyes widening. "You've got a broken rib. That's not an argument, Greg. That's assault. Are you - pressing charges?"

"No," he says. "No, not at all. Dealing with it away from work. It's... honestly, Sal? It went both ways. If we're really honest I started it. M'not proud and I'd rather keep it quiet."

She nods, still shocked but understanding. "Do the higher-ups know?" she asks.

Greg winces.

"Ah - no," he says. "Nobody does. As I said... keeping it quiet. Plenty for everyone to talk about as it is."

"Yeah. You're not wrong..."

"How's all that playing out?"

Sally glances at Mycroft, taking a discreet drink of tea. Greg smiles.

"He's family," Greg says. "So is Anthea. I'll tell them both anyway when you're gone." _And if they wanted to get into the police investigation, Sal, they would have done. They probably know more than you do._

With an apologetic smile to Mycroft, Sally takes another drink of her tea.

"Habit," she says. "Keep everything under wraps until the gavel hits the bench. But, well... there's more than enough evidence to make it murder. Stringer's lawyers will probably argue manslaughter, but we've got his internet records. He spent two hours before she died trying to find her other lovers on Facebook. Erm - including..."

Greg braces himself.

"My brother," he says.

Realisation clicks into place behind Sally's expression. "Is that why - "

"Don't you dare tell a soul."

"Christ. Of course I won't."

"And before you ask," Greg adds, "I'm on traffic cameras heading to Colchester that afternoon - then I was being watched all night by a medical team. My hands are clean in this."

Sally's mouth twists with a reluctant smile. "I don't need an alibi off you, boss. Cake'll do."

 

*

 

Neither Mycroft nor Anthea assume any manner of incriminating expression- it’s Greg’s choice, really, to decide how much tell Sally.

_Oh, I’m family!_ Anthea mouths to Mycroft behind her cup.

_Quite. Keep in mind I can write you out of the will,_ he mouths back with a lifted brow and a smug grin.

She covers a giggle with a bite of cake, though Mycroft does detect a small smile lurking on Anthea’s lips as Greg presents his own alibi.

“What about that Fenton bloke you were trying to capture when this all went awry?” Anthea asks with an interested glance toward Sally. “I hope the court case won’t affect Stringer’s work on earlier cases.”

Mycroft cringes. He’s been so wrapped in domestic bliss that it’s actually something he hadn’t considered. “Oh, do tell me that won’t be a factor. That trial made you miserable enough the first time, darling, I don’t want to see you leap right back into a rehash of it as soon as you’re back to work.”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes slide towards Sally, hopeful - though not entirely sure what he's hoping to hear. From the pained look she gives them all, he knows immediately what the outcome was.

"No sign of him," Sally says, with regret. "Wherever he's gone, he's got himself hidden well away. If we're lucky, he's out of London for good and he's another police force's problem now."

Greg snorts, busy with a mouthful of cake.

"Even if he's still in the city somewhere," Sally adds, "there are fewer Fentons left to back him up, at least. Not that Danny ever needed much back-up."

Greg swallows behind his fork, huffing. "S'true enough."

"What was it he yelled at you in court?"

"He threatened to kick my fucking head in, if I remember right." Greg gives Mycroft a small sideways smile, a flash of affectionate eyes. "Don't think he realised he was joining the back of a queue."

 

*

 

“There shall be no queue. All further queuing must go through me, and I am afraid any and all bashing of Gregory is now verboten.”

“I didn’t realize you were passing laws now,” Anthea says cheerfully, continuing to eat her cake.

“Only with regard to Gregory’s health.” He shoots a very serious yet fond look back to his partner indicating that he, perhaps, does not yet find the dark humor of the police entirely funny when it comes to this particular subject. At least not so soon after.

Marmalade chirps, padding at his hand, and he takes a moment to fluff her. “Sorry, she has a preference for being the center of attention. Not that I blame her, she’s often deserving of it. There you are, your grace.” The sound of contented cat purring fills the air, and she turns her gaze to the ladies in the room.

_And you? Pets from you?_

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “If either of you like cats, feel free to indulge her. And how is the rest of your team getting on, Sally? I hope this matter with Ryan Stringer has not overly distressed anyone. It must be hard enough to continue with Gregory out of commission, not to mention all of that… unpleasantness.”

 

*

 

"We've had a substitute DI drafted in," Sally says, with a smile. "She's alright, but I think they'll all be glad to have Greg back. It's not the same without him."

She leans across to offer her fingertips to Marmalade. They are very carefully sniffed, then permitted beneath her soft white chin for tickles. The happy purring deepens.

"People are shocked more than anything," Sally says. "I mean... murder by a police officer? We've done alright keeping things quiet while we investigate, but when it goes to trial it might get tricky." She gives Greg a wry look, still gently fussing Marmalade. "Fortunately for someone, the fact she's his ex-wife means he won't be allowed too close to the case."

_Christ. Imagine._ Greg picks up his tea, taking a drink.

"Fine by me," he says. "Just tell me when Ryan's in prison so I can go torment him through the bars."

"I think we'll be hiring a mini-bus to be honest, sir. He's not got many friends at Scotland Yard anymore."

 

*

 

_Funny, I was thinking of sending him something as thanks._ That may be too dark humor to share out loud, however, so in deference to the group Mycroft refrains.

“Think you might be able to find a sponsor for that excursion,” Anthea says idly, with an overly casual glance at Mycroft.

“Mmm, I think not. Though I may be counted on for some pastries when Gregory goes back in. Sally, you shall be in charge of ensuring he behaves, so you will get first pick of the lot.”

The thought of Gregory going back to work is a bit anxiety inducing, really. They’ve had such a lovely period of comfort and insular togetherness that Mycroft barely wishes to deal with the world outside at all. And he’d prefer that Gregory not have to either.

Their counselor has dissuaded him from being overly protective, however. Gregory must be allowed to go back to work if he wishes, and Mycroft will support that as best he’s able. In the meantime, he’s working on better explaining his own feelings and acknowledging to himself as well as Gregory, when needed.

Two people coming into their guarded little space has not been too stressful, however. It might be time to test the waters of greater contact with reality again.

“You two might join us for dinner sometime this week, if you’d like to see some of Gregory’s greater culinary abilities before he renounces his cooking career in the name of justice.  And- anyone you’re seeing, of course, Sally. Anthea, is Juli-”

Anthea wrinkles her nose. “No, she’s taken an overseas posting. Didn’t like London too much.” She shrugs, setting her now-empty plate of cake down. “Not much of a loss, to be honest.”

 

*

 

"Are you sure?" Sally says, with a hopeful glance at her boss - who nods and smiles, settling a little more comfortably into his partner's side.

"'Course," he says. "Let us know when you're free, and I'll do something special. It'll be nice to spend some time outside of work for once."

"Great - you're on. I'll fetch wine and a board-game."

Greg grins. He's not yet had the pleasure of board-games with Mycroft, but he has a feeling the teams will take the form of Scotland Yard vs. the British Government - and Anthea looks like she never loses on purpose. He hopes Sally picks something with a strong element of luck, or they're screwed.

He hadn't realised Anthea is seeing someone - _was,_ from the sound of things. It's a brave and lucky individual who'll end up filling that vacancy.

He hopes they treat her well.

Marmalade chirps, turning a delicate circle in his arms so she can request a little fuss from her Mycroft. Her tail brushes beneath Greg's nose as she pads across onto Mycroft's lap. Greg sneezes - then winces, eyes closed tight as he curls an arm around his ribs.

"Ow," he mumbles.

"Yikes," Sally agrees, her expression full of sympathy. "Still sore?"

"Yeah. You can handle all the rooftop chases for a few weeks, can't you? I'll handle sitting down and drinking tea."

 

*

 

Mycroft eyes Greg narrowly, carefully wrapping an arm about his shoulders so he can speak more quietly- there’s no sense in making their guests worry unnecessarily. The edges of his fingertips just brush Gregory’s hair. “Do you need another dose of your painkillers?”

His work on quelling his over-protective instincts has not yet extended to matters of Gregory’s health- much of the time in the first few days they’d been home had been spent, on Mycroft’s part, in ensuring that Gregory was on a very strict schedule of his medication doses and the corresponding food and water they recommended.

He’s trying to let Gregory lead more, now, to let him say when he needs care.

But Mycroft wants to be around always to offer it.

Anthea, picking up on the quiet whispering on the couch, turns to Sally. “You do a lot of board games, then? I’ve got a group for poker, usually. Blackjack.” She smiles, very predatory. “I very much enjoy liberating them of their extraneous funds.”

 

*

 

Greg knows he shouldn't enjoy Mycroft's protective side as much as he does. He's been trying not to kindle it unduly - it's early days in counselling just yet, but he knows Mycroft is putting a great deal of effort and thought into the suggestions they're being given. After their last session with Joanna, they were up until one AM lying in bed and talking, sharing, telling each other things they'd never really told anyone else.

He knows it's been hard for Mycroft. If this had happened the other way around, Greg would want to guard him like a bulldog every hour of the day and night. He'd carry Mycroft in his arms from room-to-room and never let him so much as adjust a cushion by himself again.

Turning his head, pressing a very discreet and soundless kiss to Mycroft's jaw, he says,

"M'due some more with dinner. Sneezing just jolts it a bit, that's all." He meets Mycroft's eyes, letting reassurance soften his smile. "Thank you for asking."

At the other side of the coffee table, Sally's trying not to grin into her cake. It's hard. She's never seen Greg like this, relaxed and happy and in the safest possible hands - she's incredibly glad she dropped round.

Even more so as she finds herself the recipient of one deliciously predatory smile.

Her eyes widen; she swallows her cake, fearing it slides cartoon-style down her throat as a visible lump.

"I love poker," she says. It's been years since she played, but she got pretty good back in the day. "I'll play most things, to be honest. My family were big on board games when I was a kid - just one of those weird things I got into."

 

*

 

Mycroft eyes Anthea warily as she lures Sally into a promise of joining her poker group sometime, cheerfully plotting to divest all the men in the group of their funds and then “every woman for herself.” Even Mycroft would not venture into those waters- firstly, because that group knows full well that he can read them all perfectly if he wishes to and thus they have barred him entirely, and second, because they are all quite excellent liars and if he was _not_ inclined to read them they’d have his money in an instant.

After Sally heads off to see to her inquiries, he makes sure to catch Anthea’s ear.

“I hope you know if you turn out that lovely woman’s pockets I’m going to dock it from your paycheck and return it to her via donuts and good coffee.”

“Nah, sir, she’s actually decent. All fair play with me.”

He scoffs. “Alright. Well, don’t let your GCHQ friends steal her paycheck either.”

She heads back to her flat with the promise that Mycroft will have the stack of papers signed and ready to return to her tomorrow.

Greg makes dinner, and Mycroft tries not to hover, watching him for signs of pain. It’s hard, but Marmalade helps, as she’s a delight to watch as she watches Greg for any sign of free taste tests.

Mycroft cleans up, encouraging Gregory to sit and rest until his most recent dose of painkillers kick in. He can hear the tones of the television playing softly when the doorbell rings. Brow furrowed, he calls a quick indication that he’ll go look and walks down the steps.

_Now who might be calling at this hour…._

He blinks as he looks through the security feed by the door, then opens it. “I didn’t think you were acquainted with the concept of a door bell.”

“I’m told it’s polite.” Sherlock rocks back and forth, not high for once but… a touch anxious.

Mycroft looks him over, then turns aside with a sigh so Sherlock can pass. “Why don’t you come in.”


	21. Chapter 21

“Gregory, we have a visitor,” Mycroft calls.

It feels odd to have Sherlock in his home when he is a formal guest and hasn’t merely broken in. They aren’t used to standing on propriety with each other. “Tea, brother mine?”

“I suppose it is the done thing.”

They’re silent as the rituals of tea-making are accomplished. “You haven’t been….”

“No.”

Conversation was rarely needed when they could always intuit what they needed from each other. It’s no wonder they’re miserable at it now. “Was the center useful, then?”

“Not particularly. I simply found an occupation for my mind.”

Mycroft lifts a brow. “Employment?”

“Mm, boring. No. I devoted myself to a degree of analysis. As to why your- lover’s- former wife would seek me out and the particularities of our interactions.”

Finding his shoulders stiffening at merely the mention of Karen, Mycroft focuses very hard on acquiring the milk and pouring, then stirring to the perfect blend. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“Yes. I believe the young man now awaiting trial for her death was also acquiring evidence for her. The blend of cocaine she offered me was of particularly decent quality, possibly police issue for undercovers. Not the usual sort I’ve found in basements and back alleys.”

 

*

 

There was a time that a visitor at this hour would have turned Greg's every muscle into stone. It still does, a little - the sound of Mycroft heading away down the stairs is enough for him to lower the volume on the TV a fraction, wincing as he reaches over Marmalade for the remote. He knows the door has a camera feed, and he knows Mycroft wouldn't open it unless he felt safe.

He knows, more importantly, that Karen is _dead_ \- and therefore very unlikely to be here to cause trouble.

But habits take a while to wither.

Greg rubs Marmalade's fur quietly as he waits, glad she's asleep and not purring too loud.

The call of a visitor relaxes him. He's not sure who it would be - _someone else from work, maybe?_ \- until he catches the back-and-forth of voices in the kitchen.

_Myc's brother._

Greg knows he's been in rehab somewhere - it must have done him some good, if he's now settled enough to ring the doorbell and come up for tea. It's odd to think he's here. Greg hasn't laid eyes on Myc's brother since discovering he actually _is_ Myc's brother, a thought which still makes his insides writhe a little. Joanna's been trying to encourage him to let go of his guilt over that. He thought the only thing his brain could have thought, trained by past experience to expect pain and betrayal. It's still mortifying though.

Marmalade stirs in Greg's lap, awakened by the cessation of stroking. She gives him a gentle _'brrrrp...'_ and he resumes, letting the motion of his fingers settle them both. They're watching a home renovation programme. It's chewing gum for the eyes, and Greg knows it, but the easy-viewing is helping to quieten his pain until the pills kick in.

The voices from the kitchen are audible over the TV. Greg tries not to listen - Myc's family, Myc's privacy - but the clipped tones of Mycroft's voice makes his chest ache with distress. _Oh, darlin'. You're always braced for him to turn, aren't you?_

At least they're seeing Joanna tomorrow.

It's no surprise to hear Ryan might have been supplying Karen with whatever Scotland Yard bits she fancied. Things like that are traceable, though. He'll have had to put his signature to something, somewhere. Greg makes a mental note to text Sally, just in case stealing cocaine from the store makes the difference between _'well, there's a small chance it was an accident...'_ and _'this young man has a habit of reckless decisions'._

 

*

 

Sherlock accepts his tea as Mycroft looks him over, studying his face. “And?”

“And. I calculated that given the quantity she gave me, she may have been expecting me to immediately deploy all of it, particularly as I expressed no interest in her… suggestion of intimacy.” Sherlock sips carefully. “It would have been a very clean overdose.”

Mycroft hums, still stirring although his own tea is well mixed. He needs something to do with his hands. Karen had nearly gotten Sherlock too, then.

He pulls down a third cup and makes that for Greg.

“Most casual users do not treat their addictions as chemical solvents, Sherlock. It is fortunate that she did not actually know you.”

“Quite. However. She did make a point of indicating that she, under the guise of her former sister-in-law, acquired the cocaine from the police. Were I… other than myself… she might have thought I would have told the doctors or police, in implication of your- companion- and his sister-in-law, whose name she utilized.”

Mycroft can see in his mind’s eye how that would have played out if Karen had everything in her favor. He, mourning the loss of his brother, only to find out his lover supplied the drugs that ended his life?

And after all that fuss she’d made about Mycroft being controlling and Greg being violent….

_Oh god, it might have been us first. Hoping we’d snap and kill each other._

He feels nauseous, suddenly, along with the telltale flutters of an impending panic. _A long inhale, hold it, let it out. Breathe._ He can stave these off if he can just focus for a bit. He carefully modulates his voice. “Cake, Sherlock? Gregory made it.”

“Cake? Oh, god, you haven’t gotten back into _cake_ , F-”

Mycroft casually holds up the carving knife, his gaze very quietly and sharply suggesting that Sherlock would be wise not to finish that sentence.

His brother meets his eyes and he can see Sherlock’s brow furrow briefly in concern before it vanishes. “Cake is acceptable.”

“Good. Take this through to Gregory, please. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Sherlock bears two cups as he walks through to the lounge, looking about and inventorying what has shifted since another human has taken up residence. And the cat, of course, but the cat is obvious. It’s warmer than the last time he was here- more lived in, like someone actually uses the furniture. He hadn’t thought Mycroft physically capable of relaxation, but apparently having a live-in… partner… has changed him.

Changed him to the point of casually watching mindless television, apparently.

“Greg,” he says cautiously, setting the tea down. “No, don’t move, your rib is still bothering you and my brother will probably do something reckless like encourage our parents to visit me if I contribute to your injury.”

 

*

 

By the time Sherlock enters the room, Greg has just about calmed himself into a facial expression he thinks looks normal - though his mind and heart are still racing. If he'd heard correctly, Karen had handed a volatile individual the means to kill themselves while impersonating Lizzie. It felt like discovering a noose had been around their necks all this time, unnoticed, ready to tighten at any time. His blood's suddenly cold.

_How many other ways had she set in motion to destroy us?_

The more time that passes, the more Karen's death turns from a relief and a convenience into an utter fucking miracle. It takes his breath.

Suddenly he wants to curl up in bed with Mycroft more than anything in the world, and just cry with relief and anguish for what might have happened.

Sherlock's quiet, polite arrival is enough to jog him into some semblance of a friendly smile. He concentrates on stroking Marmalade to cool the nervous panic.

"Hello, mate. You okay?" He knows Sherlock probably isn't a 'mate' sort of person, but it's out of his mouth before he can amend it. He realises he's treating Sherlock like he'd treat a new colleague in his team - friendly, settled, as if Sherlock's been dropping round for years and so welcome he might as well kick his shoes off. "Don't worry, you're alright. If they came to visit you, they'd drop in to have a look at me as well. Don't think your brother's looking to speed that happy day towards us."

 

*

 

“No, he wouldn’t be. They are… challenging.”

This is not an ideal scenario. Sherlock can sense that both Mycroft and Greg have been unsettled, but he’s unclear what point has caused it. They are alive, after all. That should be sufficient to negate most lesser concerns. Like _emotions._

Then again, people rarely behave in an entirely logical manner. Perhaps even his brother is no exception.

At any rate, he is here for a specific reason, and if he wades too far into further smalltalk or if either of them request him to stay and discuss whatever this inanity is they’re consuming on the television his brain may rot.

“I am to apologize to you. I am apologizing to you. For. Rudeness.”

There’d been a young woman at the rehabilitation center, working the night desk, who’d said _“have you tried not being a complete git?”_ He’d been bothering her about her homework- she’s studying to be a pathologist, which is endlessly fascinating to Sherlock- but for some reason she’d actually made some sense where a number of previous psychologists wishing to discuss _feelings_ and _family_ had failed.

“I disliked you on principle because my brother does not have friends, or lovers, or confidants. Everyone around him uses him. The _country_ uses him.”

He’d practiced this bit. Sort of. As far as he counts it, anyway, in his Mind Palace.

“You are… different.”

He nods to himself, as though he’s gotten through a mental inventory.

He does not see Mycroft, stalled just outside and staring at the back of his brother’s head like he expects aliens to erupt from it at any moment.

 

*

 

It's several seconds before Greg realises his mouth is open.

He closes it quietly, licks his lips, and says,

"It's - alright, mate. You don't need to apologise. 'Specially not to me."

He can just see Mycroft there out of sight, a familiar shape in the hallway.

Greg's heart beats hard.

"I'm protective of him too," he says. "It's been the happiest six months of my whole life since your brother came along. Met him in a café one day. He's one in a billion and he doesn't know it."

He holds Sherlock's gaze.

"I'll make him see it someday," he says. "Just give me time."

In his lap, the sleeping cat stirs and stretches out to her toes.

 

*

 

Mycroft blinks.

He blinks some more.

Sherlock has never in his memory said anything _kind_ about Mycroft, not really. A grudging acknowledgement, perhaps, but certainly not anything protective.

He feels a bit out of his own body, coming down from the disorienting feeling of a potential panic attack and hearing that. And then- _Greg-_

Greg does not say such things for show. He’s not saying it to prove anything to Sherlock.

He’s saying it because he believes it to be true.

Mycroft’s heart thuds loudly. _I’m going to marry him._

He has never been more certain of anything in his life, never been so in love that he’s worried his heart and mind might rend if he felt it any more deeply. This goes through to his very soul.

Taking a moment to calm himself, he counts to five and calms his face, lest Sherlock immediately spout off something about his intentions to Gregory. He may be quietly protective, in his way, but that certainly has never stopped him from saying things he does not realize are inappropriate before.

“Here is your cake, Sherlock.” There is a small piece for himself and Gregory to share as well, just a taste, really, since dinner was so filling. He tucks in beside Gregory, wrapping his arm right back around his lover’s shoulders, full of warmth and fondness.

_I’ll marry you. One day. Soon._

“Have you been properly introduced to Marmalade yet, Sherlock? She is the lady of the house, after all.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes like he’s just seen something in Mycroft’s face he cannot quite grasp, then lifts a brow like both humans he is viewing are in fact quite insane. Mycroft supposes he shouldn’t expect better, after all Sherlock can barely understand people. Pets might be a step too far. “How do you do?” his brother offers skeptically to the cat.

 

*

 

Marmalade chirps with delight. _So many new people today._ She squirms onto her back and stretches out, presenting her tummy to Sherlock with paws tucked up beneath her chin.

Greg bites down into his grin, offering her his fingers instead.

"I don't know if your Uncle Sherlock is used to giving  tummy tickles, princess," he murmurs. "I'm sure he thinks you're gorgeous though."

Marmalade trills, still gazing with enormous interest at Sherlock.

As they eat cake in comfortable quiet, Greg wonders if there's a subject he dares to broach. It occurred to him earlier, texting Sally a few thoughts on the disappearance of Danny Fenton - it's not work, he tells himself. It's just worth passing these things on when they come to mind. By the time he gets back, the trail will be even colder than it is already.

 _And we were all there,_ he thinks. _Not a dark secret unless we treat it like it is._

As Marmalade plays quietly with his fingertips, batting them away each time he reaches for her tummy, Greg gives Sherlock a smile.

"Might be nothing," he says, "but out of interest... the house in Lambeth. There was someone else there at the same time as you. Guy called Danny Fenton. He's meant to be in prison, but he had other ideas. He's now vanished off the grid and my sergeant's getting nowhere tracing him. You don't happen to know anything about him, do you?"

He doubts Sherlock will have been in much of a state to remember the people he shares his crackhouses with, but it's worth a shot in the dark.

It's amazing how often they hit something.

 

*

 

Mycroft watches as Sherlock tentatively extends his fingers for Marmalade to sniff, tucking himself as close to Gregory’s side as he dares without risking his injury. Any discussion of Danny Fenton reminds him that Gregory will have to return to work soon, that he’ll be off in pursuit of men who’ve threatened him openly.

_A typical day for him._

He’ll have to learn not to interfere again, not to stalk his cameras just to check in. He’d rather just keep Greg somewhere safe. Here, for instance. Forever.

But Gregory loves his work, just as Mycroft loves his. A bit of danger is part and parcel for both of them.

“Fenton. Family recently jailed, yes? One of my other… contacts… moved, because of that. I think they’d been working out of one of the family houses.”

Marmalade reaches up with one paw, curling it about Sherlock’s hand and dragging it lower. _Belly pets, please._ Sherlock furrows his brow, not so much petting as confusedly holding his hand there, and Mycroft mentally archives the whole of it, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. _The time Sherlock obeyed the orders of a cat._

“I don’t recall much. Shouting, I think. Someone yelled. Possibly regarding the imminent police presence.”

His eyes drift up, and Mycroft can see the spark of curiosity flare.

“Your people haven’t found him yet?”

 

*

 

"Nah," Greg says with regret. "No sign of him at all. Honestly, it's probably a done deal by now... the Fentons were good at vanishing when they wanted to. However they did it, Danny's still got the keys. I've asked other forces around the country to keep an eye out for him, but London's big enough on its own to disappear."

He gives a small smile, reaching for his tea while he gets a quick break from belly-rubbing duties. Marmalade seems to be squirming in a _'and now like this'_ sort of motion, waiting for Sherlock to get the hang of the process.

"I'm meant to be the Fenton expert," Greg says. "Still not a clue where he could've gone. And it's not likely the chief super's gonna throw money at me to track him down - he's already thrown it at me once. So much for prison security."

Realising he's lapsing into work talk, Greg gives Mycroft an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, love," he murmurs. "One hour with Sally and I'm back on the beat."

 

*

 

Sherlock does not quite understand, but the cat seems to be petting herself on him, and that should be sufficient for all parties. _Uncle Sherlock. Ridiculous._ Though it might be entertaining later to acquire matching _#1 Cat Dad_ mugs, so long as they are gifted in front of their parents.

No, the matter of Danny Fenton’s escape is far more interesting.

“That’s alright, love,” his brother is saying, and Sherlock resists the urge to sneer at the endearment. _He means it._

He has to remember this is beneficial for him. Greg Lestrade’s presence shall keep Mycroft from too much interfering in Sherlock’s personal pursuits. Speaking of which…

“I do have some contacts. The sort that would not be inclined to speak with police.” The plan is formulating in his mind- it’s a network, really, of all the disenfranchised souls he has encountered, those he has made trades with for drugs and experiments.

“I shall make inquiries for you,” he says as he firmly decides. “In exchange… might you tell me what you learn? It could be… mutually beneficial.”

_And certainly not boring._

 

*

 

Greg’s eyebrows lift with great interest. Those sort of contacts don’t come along every day, and while it can be tricky to scrub clean any evidence they produce, it’s not impossible - and the intelligence they bring is usually worth its weight in gold.

“I can’t tell you everything,” he says, sure Sherlock will understand the legal restrictions of his profession. These things can flex when they need to, but there’s always a limit. “I’m sure I can slip you a few details, though. Nothing you’d get in trouble for.”

Marmalade, frustrated by the lack of focus here, tips her head back to gaze up at Mycroft. She gives a short, insistent meow.

_He’s doing it wrong. Make him do it properly._

 

*

 

“Acceptable. I shall let you know what I find.”

Sherlock rises, suddenly- apparently half a slice of cake and a bit of tea are enough for him. Mycroft sighs as Marmalade chirps at him to fix this, but he knows the signs of Sherlock getting itchy to chase an idea well enough.

_Better that than drugs._

“Let me at least wrap the cake for you-”

“Already handled.” And indeed it is, apparently Sherlock has lifted more than a few sandwich bags from their supply. Mycroft know better than to ask what the others are intended for. “I shall be in touch regarding Danny Fenton, Greg.”

His Belstaff whirls as he leaps down the steps, eager to chase down whatever lead he thinks he has.

Mycroft nuzzles his head into Greg’s shoulder and runs his own hand over Marmalade’s belly to make up for his brother’s lack of proper tithing to the household’s queen. “Before you ask, yes, he is usually like that. He doesn’t know how to slow down.”

 

*

 

Greg grins, looking down at Marmalade as she finally begins to purr.

"Think your Sherlock would've been burnt as a witch a few centuries ago," he says. He reaches for his tea, wincing only a little with the stretch, and takes a drink. "That energy can do wonders if it's channelled right, though... I wish my DCs ran off to investigate things like that."

As he puts his tea back on the coffee table, he sighs and settles into Mycroft's side, reaching down to help with stroking of Marmalade's tummy. She burbles in sleepy approval.

"Busy day," Greg murmurs. "M'not going to be up late... might even go for a bath and call it a night."

He leans up, pressing his lips just beneath Mycroft's ear.

"You okay, gorgeous?"

 

*

 

Mycroft tilts into the touch, savoring it. _Be honest._ “Not… not particularly. Did you hear… what he said about Lizzie?”

He doesn’t even want to speak Karen’s name. He wants to burn her from the annals and chisel her picture from the walls, like they did for ancient rulers whose memory the new king or queen wished to eradicate entirely.

“I couldn’t bear it, Gregory. Just thinking about it…. She had so many weapons pointed your way, and she meant to make me one as well. I just… can’t stand the thought that we might have missed something.”

He knows it’s not rational. Anthea has been over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Every single lover they were able to find evidence of was analyzed for any sign of a remaining threat, any lingering grudge.

She found nothing but depleted bank accounts and men who all thought they meant something special to the malicious harpy they took to bed.

Frankly, it seems to be a miracle no one had realized her games and killed her sooner.

He turns his face into Greg’s chest.

“I cannot lose you, love. Not ever.”  

 

*

 

Greg's heart heaves at once.

"Darlin'..." he whispers, and even Marmalade will have to wait her turn in the queue for a while. Greg gathers her gently from his lap and brooks no squirming as he transfers her carefully to the floor.

She harrumphs, hops into another chair, and begins a thorough clean of her fur.

Greg draws his lover tightly into his arms.

He lets them wrap all around Mycroft, as if trying to hide him away from the world. He runs his fingers through the hair on the back of Mycroft's head, and kisses his temple, and feels his own heart drumming between them as he speaks.

"This is normal, gorgeous... completely normal, you know that? We've lived through someone plotting to wreck our lives. At work they arrange counselling for people who survive attempted murder. Months of it, love. Whatever they need to feel safe in their daily lives."

He begins to rub a slow circle between Mycroft's shoulders, his voice soft and low.

"It's normal to feel uneasy after something like this," he says. "There was a threat, and it was a serious one - and you're going to be looking for other threats for a while. It's your brain trying to keep you safe, sweetheart. We're all just monkeys, really... watching out for lions, even when they're gone."

His arms gently tighten.

"But we're safe, love. She didn't factor Ryan into her schemes. Whatever was going on in her brain, she made plans like she was invincible and she'd be around to run them. She's not. It's all gone now, along with the rest of her... and you're not gonna lose me, love. Time'll help. Joanna'll help. Lots of time together, getting used to safety, will help."

 

*

 

Mycroft nuzzles closer. It helps to hear Greg’s heart beating and feel his warmth. “It’s never been like this for me. I’ve had threats before- attempts on my own person- and I was never nearly as terrified. Any risk to you… it’s much worse than anything that could be done to me.”

He carefully wraps his arms around Greg’s waist, quite low so he doesn’t disturb Greg’s healing ribs.

“I know, rationally, that whatever she wanted, it’s done now. She can’t hurt you.”

He unburies his face from Greg’s chest and brushes his lips to the bottom of Greg’s jaw. _Mine. Mine and I must protect you._

“It’s simply… I know I cannot keep you in an ivory tower forever. You’ll be back in the world and I… worry.”

 

*

 

There's a quiet pause, as Greg makes a possible connection.

As he nuzzles against Mycroft's cheek, he closes his eyes.

"Darlin', are you... uneasy about me going back to work?" he asks, gently. "'Cause if you are... you know I can extend it? CID can request longer stretches of time-off on medical grounds - stress, usually. Might be unpaid, but I've seen them award three months without blinking. They'd phase me back in - part-time, fewer cases at first - and it'd be when you're ready."

He draws back to cup Mycroft's face in his hands.

Gently he holds his lover's gaze, his tone soft and serious.

"Sweetheart, this - you and me - this isn't something small. You're my partner. If you need longer to feel safe again - if you want me to take some proper time off work - you know you can ask me for that, don't you?"

 

*

 

Part of the idea is immediately appealing. All of his protective instincts want to keep Greg here and safe forever. He can afford it, certainly.

But that would also be like keeping him in prison, and it’s not as though Mycroft will be shirking much further on his own responsibilities.

“You enjoy your work, Gregory, I couldn’t ask you to turn yourself into a househusband for months on end. Not when I’ll have to show myself in my own office sometime soon myself. What would that be? Dinner on the table by six and you’ll be bored and alone during the day while I’m at work? I wouldn’t… want to feel like I’m ordering you to do anything you might not wish to do.”

He turns his lips into Greg’s palm and kisses there, loving and gentle.

“Perhaps… perhaps an extra week or two will be enough. A month at most. I’ll continue to work from home and try to get used to the idea that you will be fine if I cannot see you.”

Maybe, if Greg is healed enough, they can even spend the last bit of time together on leave at the lake house. Far away from any possible reminders of the misery Karen had caused. Otherwise he’s certainly planning it for the holiday time they’ll both be due after the turn of the year.

“If you’re feeling up to the drive before you return to work… my mother’s renovations at the lake house ought to be done and I’m fairly certain they’ve gone off to Spain, so no one would be dropping by unannounced….”

 

*

 

Greg's mouth lifts in a gentle half-smile, watching Mycroft with deep fondness.

"I'll be safe at work," he murmurs, brushing his thumb beneath Mycroft's lips. "It's Scotland Yard, darlin'. Other than a vault in the Bank of England, or right here next to you, there's no safer place in the world for me."

He leans close, gently kissing Mycroft's lips.

"I'll get us another two weeks," he says, softly. "We'll go to the lake house, love. Spend that 'proper time together' we've been desperate for. It'll make it easier for both of us when I go back."

He might check with Sally about staggering his return-to-work - dropping into Scotland Yard for a day or so, testing his strength. The idea of just plunging back into the place one Monday morning at nine AM for a full fifty-hour week makes his stomach hurt.

Stealing another little kiss from Mycroft's mouth, he says,

"Myc, I... since everything happened, it feels like we're closer. A lot closer. I'm not saying I'm glad it happened, but... I'm glad this is where it brought us."

 

*

 

“Yes. I am as well.” Mycroft smiles lovingly. “I am quite fond of being close with you.”

It’s true. Though they still have much to work through, fortunately with the benefit of their excellent therapist, this has resulted in the closest, firmest bond he’s ever shared with another person. And being with Gregory, whether sharing the simple joys of a shared meal and telly or laying bare the parts of himself he scarcely dares acknowledge is the happiest Mycroft has ever been.

He kisses back as firmly as he dares, still cautious of the places that had so recently been purpled and bloodied on Greg’s face.

Marmalade pauses in her extensive bathing routine to chirp at them. Mycroft is fairly certain she is telling them to go upstairs if they’re going to have human alone time.

“Bed?” he kisses the corner of Greg’s mouth. “I would like to hold you for a bit.”

 

*

 

_Love how gentle you still are with me._

In some ways these last two weeks have been easier for Greg than for Mycroft. Greg might have had to deal with the pain and the painkillers, but he's keenly aware that Mycroft has had to watch it all - see him suffering, see the mess of his face, and be unable to do anything except wait.

Taking Mycroft's hand with a smile, Greg eases himself up off the sofa. _See, darlin'? M'not made of glass._

He gives a gentle pull, bringing Mycroft with him.

"C'mon, gorgeous," he murmurs. "Come hold me."


	22. Chapter 22

Upstairs in the bedroom, Greg switches on the bedside lamps. It's dark beyond the curtains; London is falling to sleep. He removes his watch with care, regarding his lover fondly across their bed.

"Think my sergeant's rather taken with yours, by the way."

His eyes are soft and dark, with the gentle intensity of gaze he only ever has for his partner.

"We'll have to make sure they don't sneak off halfway through dinner, or we'll find them in the airing cupboard."

 

*

 

“Gregory, I would not advise standing between Anthea and anything she decides she wants, even if said things are occuring in our airing cupboard.”

Besides, Mycroft is fairly certain from the little he’s seen that Sally Donovan might provide a bit of grounding for Anthea, if she was so inclined, just as Greg has for himself. Relationships within the security services are encouraged partially because everyone knows their loyalty is the work first and their partner second, and Anthea has had her own string of lovers, just as Mycroft used to, none particularly serious. 

Gregory has made Mycroft reconsider the entire lifestyle he used to lead. All for the better.

He slips off his clothes and goes through his evening routine, neatly putting everything into its place. His pajamas are set beside the bed in case he wants them later- for now it’s skin he needs, and his partner’s warmth.

He turns down the sheets and slides in, fluffing their pillows. 

“How are you feeling? Is your rib behaving?”

 

*

 

Greg gives his mouth one last rinse, returns his toothbrush to the holder and dries his face, returning to the bedroom just as Mycroft slips into bed. The sight softens his heart - his lover in the lamplight, fluffing their pillows. 

Something about these close and quiet bedtimes will always raise his pulse. 

"I'm in the golden hour," he says, untucking his shirt from his jeans. He smiles as he undoes his buttons. "My painkillers've kicked in but not started to wear off yet. I feel fine."

He leaves the shirt open around his shoulders as he moves on to unbutton his jeans.  _ D'you even know how good you look right now?  _ he thinks, gazing at Mycroft resting against the pillows of their bed. He lowers his zip and slides his thumbs around his waistband, hooking beneath his boxer shorts.  _ D'you know how much I just need to touch you? _

 

*

 

“Gregory….”

Mycroft leans back, having turned his gaze to Gregory with just enough time to fully appreciate the view. This is a glorious look indeed, with the path of skin from throat to navel visible, tempting but not yet revealing. 

_ Just a taste. Just a tease. _

A pulse of interest twitches through his core, blood suddenly shifting into his cock. He lifts a brow. 

“Are you doing that deliberately, hellion?”

He smiles, his eyes darkening.

“Giving me a show?”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes glitter.

"'Course I am," he murmurs, biting down into his grin. He knows all sorts of things Mycroft likes now. Watching seems to be one of them, and frankly it's amazing no-one has been fucked in front of a mirror yet.  _ Only a matter of time.  _

"I like you watching me," he says softly, as he eases his jeans down over his hip bones - the boxer shorts, too. The movement is decadently slow, revealing the intimate V- of skin fraction by fraction. Taking this easily helps with his rib; it means Mycroft can enjoy it, too. "You know I never felt sexy like this, 'til I had you to watch me...? It's all you, darlin'. You're the difference."

His boxers stretch a little over his cock - he's filling out already, thickening just from the feeling of his lover's gaze. Reaching down with care, keeping eye contact all the while, he slips his hand into his shorts to free himself. His fingers wrap slowly around his cock. 

He doesn't hide that it feels good - inhaling a little, one or two loose strokes just to feel his own hardness. Enjoyment flutters across his expression.

"Mhmm."

 

*

 

“I don’t know why… you are terribly sexy Gregory. At all times. I bet you were a menace in uniform. Criminals falling at your feet and begging to be arrested….”

_ Mmm. Fuck.  _ Mycroft honestly wouldn’t mind just watching Gregory bring himself off at some point, slowly stroking until he falls apart.

Tonight, however, he wants to touch.

He licks his lip and pushes the sheets down past his hips so his lover can see his own growing interest thickening next to pale thighs. “You look beautiful, love. Sexy. Delectable….”

He eases himself out of the sheets and crawls slowly to the edge of the bed closest to Gregory, resting on his forearms.

“Let me taste you?”

 

*

 

_ Christ, I want you... _

Nobody else gets to see Mycroft this way. Nobody gets to see him crawling across a bed late at night, naked and gorgeous and his pupils all big, wanting to touch. As he gazes down, Greg finds himself struck all over again by the quiet miracle that he's found someone who not only cares for him, but wants his body too - someone who evokes a very real, very physical need in his blood.

He steps closer, bringing himself to the edge of the mattress, and with a small smile brushes his fingers back through Mycroft's hair. They wrap around the back of his head, cradling him - pulling him gently closer. 

"Missed you like this," he murmurs, watching Mycroft softly. "Missed being close this way."

 

*

 

Mycroft hums an agreement, taking a moment the inhale the scent of Greg, so close and familiar. “I am glad we can, now. Closer to normal.”

He flicks his tongue out, teasing just the head for a moment before he lets Gregory’s hands draw him closer. There’s something appealing about Gregory’s still half-dressed state, the brush of jean and zipper just below his chin and the unbuttoned shirt brushing his shoulders. Perhaps it puts him in mind of the illicitness of a midday liaison during work hours, or times when they’ve just had too much desire to quite bother with getting all their clothing off. 

Here, though, he must be a bit more gentle, and he can offer some assistance to Greg’s poor bruised ribs. Resting on his elbows, he slips his hands up Greg’s thighs, drawing his pants down further until they reach his knees, where they’ll be easier for him to slip off.

His mouth wraps the head of his lover’s beautiful cock and sucks, his tongue teasing along the frenulum in a slow and steady pattern. It’s harder to chance a glance up this way but Mycroft can feel Greg’s pleasure in the way he holds his hair.

_ I love making you hard for me. _

 

*

 

"Fuck..." Greg breathes, his fingers coiling in instinct. He works to relax his hold in Mycroft's hair a little, shivering.  _ God, but when you're like this... _ that sly pink tongue teasing him, flicking right under the head like that - Mycroft  _ knows  _ he's bloody good at this. He knows he can turn Greg into a wreck in minutes if he wants to, but he chooses to go slow. 

It's incredible.

Greg watches as Mycroft sucks him to hardness, a little roughness audible in his breath already. He forces himself to focus on stroking Mycroft's hair, taking this easy - it's not often he'll stand while Mycroft does this. He knows it shouldn't make him feel a little powerful. 

It kinda does, though - standing here letting Mycroft work his magic, shivering as his cock thickens under his lover's expert ministrations. Mycroft's mouth is decadently warm and wet and slick, his slow movements just on the boundary between teasing and satisfying. 

Breathing out with a shudder, Greg cups Mycroft's jaw gently with his free hand. He looks down -  _ my darlin'. My gorgeous guy, sucking my cock.  _ His fingers shake in Mycroft's hair a little, petting it back.  _ Doing so good for me.  _

He slides the pad of his thumb along Mycroft's lip, stroking where they're circled around his cock. 

_ Fuck... how many ways is it possible to fucking adore you? _

 

*

 

Mycroft nuzzles against Greg’s hand as he takes that luscious cock deeper, washing it over in pleasure. There’s still enough room to wiggle his tongue, savoring it as the first drops of precum slip out.

He draws back, grinning, looking up with only the briefest glance at the lingering bruising on Gregory’s side. “What are you up for, lovely?”

Tilting forward, he layers kisses up the inside of Greg’s thighs, pausing to lick a stripe over his balls and nestle his nose into the soft skin.

“Want to ride me?”

His eyes flit up as he mouths a kiss at the base of Greg’s shaft.

“Want me to take you?”

 

*

 

Greg bites into his lip so hard it briefly whitens, releasing it with a shivering outbreath. His thumb strokes over Mycroft's collarbone as he considers. Ideally, there'd be some way he could have both those things and more - some way he and Mycroft could just melt together, wrap around each other and be inside each other at once, close in every possible way.

But life is made of choices, and Greg makes his with a hopeful pulse low in his stomach.

"Can I take you?" he asks, softly. He loves Mycroft's eyes like this - that beautiful blue-grey gaze, focused solely on him. It makes him feel weak inside. "If we go slow maybe? And I'll tell you if I'm..."

 

*

 

Mycroft lets his tongue drag over Greg’s cock as he pulls back once more. “Yes.” He kisses the head. “As long as you tell me.”

He scoots back, pressing off his knees so he can fall onto his back, carelessly draped over the pillows. His smile and dark eyes betray that he knows this is just as much of a show, in its way, as he decadently arches back and wraps his hand about his cock, slowly drawing it upwards.

“Think you might want to divest yourself of the rest of that clothing, first.” Primarily so Mycroft can appreciate it the moment each bit of skin is bared. “We’ll go slow as you like… slow as you need, beautiful.”

 

*

 

_ Christ... I would worship at your feet if you let me. _

_ Worship on your cock. _

Greg flushes even at the thought. Holding his lover's gaze, knowing his eyes belong in only one place in this moment, he reaches down with care and loosens his jeans the last of the way around his knees. The weight of the denim does most of the work for him. His shorts go with them; he steps out of them carefully, the fingertips of one hand braced lightly on the bedside. The last thing they need is for him to fall and snap his rib again. Mycroft will never trust him to get undressed on his own again. 

Bare except for his open shirt, Greg climbs gently onto the bed and makes his way to his lover, his smile soft and his eyes bright. He takes his time to sit across the top of Mycroft's thighs, his hands planted carefully on Mycroft's torso when he needs support. As with most of Greg's recent activity,  _ 'with deliberation'  _ is the way.

Seated, he stirs close enough for their balls to nestle together. It makes him smile, unsure why; it develops into a grin as he reaches up to ease his shirt back from his shoulders.

"I reckon you were some kind of emperor in a past life," he says, letting the material slide down his arms. "And I was your favourite concubine. You sent all the others away. Only wanted me to warm your bed."

 

*

 

“Mm, is that why I so often wish to see you in sculpture?” 

Mycroft very gently runs his fingertips up Greg’s sternum. When Greg is fully healed, Mycroft has some ideas of how he would like to celebrate, starting with reacquainting himself in every possible way with all the spots that have been slow to heal. He could possibly manage it for hours, if Greg let him.

Or if he tied Greg down first. 

“I think I see you as better than a concubine. Hephaestion to my Alexander, perhaps… a general in my armies during the day and king of my bed at night.”

His hand drifts up, stroking the line of his lover’s throat, his jaw, the gentle curve of his lip.

“Alexander was a king but he honored Hephaestion as a hero and a god.”

A finger parts Greg’s lips just enough to feel the hint of moisture within, still gentle, still loving, though his grin has grown a bit sly.

“I imagine he was very nearly as good as you in bed, to merit such favors.”

 

*

 

Greg's gaze glitters, the tip of his tongue stealing between his lips to wet Mycroft's finger. The gentle stroking is somehow soothing and arousing him at once.  _ It's nice to touch,  _ he thinks.  _ Nice to rediscover again. _

He loosens his shirt from each of his wrists, and drops it gently off the bed. 

"Did Alexander and Hephaestion have a really cute cat?" he asks, amused, as he rests his hands back on Mycroft's stomach. He strokes gently, gliding up his lover's chest and then back down. "I bet the guy couldn't bake like me either."

He lowers a hand to wrap their cocks together, holding Mycroft's gaze with warmth.

"Would you build temples to me?"

 

*

 

“Temples. Palaces. Entire cities.”

He inhales a quiet moan when Greg wraps them together, the sensation of this sort of closeness always particularly stimulating as their pulses nearly unify. His hand finds Greg’s hair, guiding him softly lower.  _ Want to kiss you. _

He does enjoy having Greg over him as well- it’s reminiscent of when Greg rides him, sitting like that, and it gives him an excellent view- but he still wants to touch and hold.

It’s a slow process, at the moment, to get Greg from one position to another without hurting him. Mycroft curls up onto his elbow to speed it. His abdominals can bear it.

By the time their lips meet his eyes are dark and eager, and the kiss is just a bit more passionate than he would have dared even a day earlier.  _ Mine. My love. How many realms would I build for you? How many worlds? _

 

*

 

Greg shifts his free hand to help him lower his weight. He rests his forearm on the bed at Mycroft's side, and as he sinks carefully down, he keeps his shoulder braced to lift again if he needs to. Their mouths come together; he finds his pulse is quick and soft.  _ Patient with me. Letting me take my time.  _ He'd expect nothing less from Mycroft, but it still fills him with a glow of safety and security that almost takes his breath.

The gentle blur of their lips and the slow brush of tongues feels wonderful. After a few moments Greg's shoulder aches a little, complaining; he pulls his hand from their cocks with reluctance, resting it instead on Mycroft's other side. 

It's much easier for him. He shivers softly, concentrating on the kiss instead. Contentment ripples just beneath the surface of his skin. He stirs, nuzzling to make Mycroft lie down, to rest back against the pillows and be kissed. Rising back up from this position will hurt - it might be easier, he thinks, just to tip off Mycroft slowly onto his side - but for now it's all he wants: their bodies gently pressed, their skin warm and soft and close.

_ I love you,  _ he says with every brush of his tongue.  _ I love you so much. I love you more than I ever did. _

 

*

 

Mycroft lets himself be guided- wherever Gregory needs him, he’ll go.  _ Here or anywhere. _ Resting on his back gives him an opportunity he’s been craving, just to wrap his arms about Greg- careful and cautious and never tightening, but simply feeling a true embrace.

He didn’t expect to ever become a man who would miss  _ hugs _ when suddenly deprived of them.

It’s warm and comfortable, just being with each other, kissing, erections pressing against each other with each soft shift of movement. Love is written in every gesture they make against each other. It’s lovely just to take the time to touch. To be slow. 

“I want you,” he murmurs when his cock begins to dampen, thoroughly hard and just starting to ache for greater contact. “Want you to take me. Fill me, Gregory.”

 

*

 

"Fuck..." Greg whispers with a shiver, his pulse skipping wildly. Hearing Mycroft beg him softly is nearly enough to end this before it's begun - he could come just replaying those words in his mind. "I'll take you, darlin'... I'll give you what you need."

He lifts his eyes to the bedside cabinet, reaching over to retrieve the lube now newly restored to its place of honour behind the lamp. It's been a while since he took Mycroft - and there's always something nice about getting him hot with fingers, making him desperate for it.

With the lube folded in his palm, Greg presses a soft kiss to Mycroft's mouth. He takes a moment to brace his muscles, preparing himself for discomfort, then slowly rolls off his lover onto his side. His shoulder takes most of the weight; it's not too bad. 

"C'mere," he murmurs, pulling Mycroft into his arms. "Lie facing me, sweetheart... rest your leg over me. That's it."

He lubes his fingers one-handed, puts the tube to one side, then reaches gently between Mycroft's thighs. His fingertips slide slickly over Mycroft's entrance, just nuzzling the tight ring of muscle for now, rubbing in a slow circle to start the warming action of the gel.

Greg's eyes shine, watching Mycroft's face.

"Need more lube soon," he murmurs. "Think we're running low..."

 

*

 

“Mm, perhaps we can allocate some time to visit a specialty shop… pick up some other items while we’re there….” Mycroft breaks off into a low moan, eyes fluttering as the warmth starts to tease against him along with Greg’s gentle ministrations.

There is a different sort of vulnerability in this, despite the gentleness. Something about the slowness of it, the way he has to draw his leg up to give Greg better access, feels more…  _ open. _

His toes curl as the sensation deepens, as Greg slowly broaches him with the torturous slowness of a single finger. The animal part of him wants to grab and pull and  _ mark _ , but he can’t, not yet- he must be gentle, still, until Gregory is well. He wraps his fingers in Greg’s hair instead, curling in but refraining from pulling as he groans in pleasure, his face flushing.

“Tease,” he breathes against his lover’s mouth, quick to steal a kiss.

_ I love you. _

 

*

 

"Mm hmm..." Greg murmurs, his gaze soft as he watches Mycroft blush.  _ You're so fucking beautiful.  _ "Want to get you a little desperate for me... is that okay?"

The thought of going to a sex shop together is...  _ very _ interesting. He has a feeling an impressive toy collection might begin at some point. Mycroft's comfort with sex and pleasure has been enormously freeing for Greg, and he imagines they could spend an entire week in bed from just one visit to the right shop.

He waits until Mycroft has settled around his finger, until their kissing has grown soft and gentle again, then with care he eases in a second. He takes his time to go slow, watching Mycroft's expression closely as he does.  _ Show me, baby. Show me you want it. _

 

*

 

“I am always desperate for you.”

Mycroft settles gently, letting Gregory slowly work him. He has to give up on Greg’s hair when he stops trusting his hands not to clench, wrapping them in the sheets instead, his lips slightly parted so each little sound of appreciation and desire is shared equally with the source of his pleasure.

He knows Gregory likes seeing him like this. Seeing him  _ need.  _ He knows because he feels the same about rendering Gregory insensible with desire. He’s not sure what he’s going to do if they do end up in a shop, likely eyeing restraints, as the idea of letting Greg tie him up is both slightly nerve-wracking and egregiously arousing.

If he was to be at anyone’s mercy, however, Greg would absolutely be his first and only choice.

“Gregory,” Mycroft moans, unable to help himself as he ruts back into Greg’s hand, a soft cry escaping him when he feels the first brush of pleasure over his prostate. 

“Mmm, please, love.”

 

*

 

Greg bites into his lip, feeling his stomach tighten as Mycroft rocks back for him. His breath audibly catches; he concentrates on rhythm now, softening Mycroft to the sensation of slow and firm in-and-out. Sometimes he thrusts deep enough to graze his prostate again - sometimes,  _ just  _ too shallow. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he whispers, as he brushes Mycroft's hair back from his forehead with his spare hand. "That's it... feel good, mm? Relax and take for me..."

Shifting a little, he lets their cocks rub together between their stomachs - both aching now and hot to the touch, wet-tipped with need.

"Nearly ready to ride me, darlin'?" he murmurs, thrusts his fingers deep and begins to massage, rubbing slowly to work pleasure into Mycroft's body. "D'you feel how hard I am for you right now? D'you know what this is doing to me?"

 

*

 

Mycroft cries out when Greg thrusts deep, white-knuckled, his leg clenching over Greg’s hip. The pleasure of that stroke within him and the shared heat of them moving together sending waves of desire through him is almost too much to bear. 

His mind is steadily blanking, as it does when he’s stimulated this way. Greg has become particularly adept at such feats- he is a dangerously fast study when it comes to his partner’s needs, and Mycroft is endlessly grateful for every carefully tailored movement.

“Yes- nnn- Greg, please-”

He buries his face in Greg’s shoulder, open-mouthed, begging and panting. The soft flush of pink along his face has spread down his chest, tinting his freckles. Greg can make him come like this, but Mycroft knows he won’t, not yet. Even if he did, it’s a slow burn, very intense for far longer, and he is clay to be molded in Greg’s hands.

“Feel you- want you- please, Greg-”

His hips fuck back into Gregory’s hands, seeking more and  _ more. _

“I need you- oh, god, Gregory-”

 

*

 

"Mm hmm?" Greg murmurs, nuzzling into his hair. "You need me now, darlin'? Ready for something bigger?"

He eases his wet fingers free from Mycroft's body and reaches along the underside of his thigh, holding him beneath the knee. Gently he rolls them, tipping over onto his back and bringing Mycroft to kneel across him. His hands stroke appreciatively up Mycroft's thighs, over his hips and to his waist.

As they work their way together, taking the time to settle Mycroft comfortably on his cock, Greg murmurs gentle words of love and tenderness, adoration of his lover's body - how Mycroft looks right now, how he feels, how tight he is inside, how warm - how perfectly made for Greg he is - how gorgeous his freckles, his skin, his perfect face. Their hands come together, gripping each other's fingers; Greg concentrates his efforts on staying still, letting Mycroft choose when he's ready to move. 

Two weeks without these moments has reminded him how much he loves them. It's the part of sex so commonly overlooked - whisked by in a rush to get to chasing, grinding, panting - but there's an intimacy to it that he's missed desperately.

"Starting to feel easier, love?" he murmurs, stroking his thumbs in slow circles against Mycroft's palms. "You're doing so well for me. You're doing beautifully, taking me again."

 

*

 

Mycroft is awash in a sea of compliments and love, so adrift that even the mild burn of the stretch feels like hardly anything at all. It feels so slow, this easing in, but Gregory’s hands are with him, supporting him, and going slow, letting himself feel every second of their coming together, feels safe.

Just a bit deeper and he’ll have the whole of his lover within him. Mycroft loves that sensation, as though they’re fully joined and somehow inseparable. He exhales, relaxing further, sinking down a bit more.

He moans out Greg’s name breathily, pausing there to let himself adjust a bit more. “You feel so good, beautiful- filling me- want to be good for you….”

It’s something he never would have said even a scant few months ago, too used to being the one on the other side of the string of endearments and the praise. 

_   
_ _ Only Gregory. Only he can have me like this. _

_ Only he can have me. _

He inhales, and sinks again, until he can feel the touch of their heated skin together against his arsecheeks. “Oh, god- I love you, Gregory-”

 

*

 

"I love you, gorgeous - " 

Greg's hands glide up Mycroft's sides, shaking gently. They stroke across his chest.

"I love you darlin'," he whispers, lost in the sight and the feeling - Mycroft above him in the lamplight, moaning softly, tight around his cock.  _ Sharing,  _ Greg thinks.  _ Together. One body for a while.  _ His fingertips skim over Mycroft's nipples, teasing, then back down to his waist where he grips gently. "G-God... fuck, I've  _ missed _ this - "

 

*

 

Mycroft sighs in pleasure, letting himself simply feel for a moment- Gregory’s cock within him, his hands stroking without, enjoying the slight break in his lover’s voice that signals his enjoyment.

Easing like this lets him get some of his own control back. His hands find Greg’s thighs, carefully bracing, eyes dark as he looks down over his lover.

Slowly, so slowly, he rocks up, perhaps only an inch or so before he settles once more. Then again, a bit further, letting out a quiet moan.

“I missed you too, my love. And I am ever so looking forward to watching you come for me… come in me….”

In steady, methodical rhythm, he slowly begins to rock.

 

*

 

_ Oh, Christ -  _

Greg's expression tightens. The sensation of Mycroft sliding snugly around his cock is enough to short-circuit his senses for a moment. He pants as he tries to get a hold on himself, his grip flexing on Mycroft's waist, his eyes locked on that dark and sex-soaked gaze above him. 

"J-Jesus..." he breathes, and with a stifled groan he stretches out. His teeth dig into his lower lip. "Myc, that - that feels -  _ f-fuck, _ that  _ feels..." _

Words fail him. He swallows, shaking, and begins to rock back to meet Mycroft's motions - he can't risk his ribs with proper thrusts, but just contributing to the rhythm feels like fucking heaven. 

 

*

 

_ Perfect. _

Watching Gregory lose control of himself is one of the best views Mycroft has seen. He loves each and every little intricacy of it, the way his face shifts, his breath, the way Mycroft can see how he’s struggling not to just give in to it. 

Feeling Greg push back against him is heavenly, and he bites down the urge to tell Gregory not to try that yet. He has to let the man decide his own pace. Swiping his tongue over his lip, he pulls up as far as he can while keeping his hands in place and slowly centers again, feeling a delightful rub along his prostate.

“Do you like that, love? Shall I drag it out, make you come nice and slow?”

 

*

 

Greg's desperate moan cuts as he swallows, his throat thick. He gazes at Mycroft moving on top of him as if they've never done this before. Pleasure has risen colour in his face; it only deepens with Mycroft's question.

"Fuck - slow - y-yeah. Yeah, I want that."

He knows they rarely manage slow. It always seems like a magnificent idea, until they ease into each other's bodies and suddenly the only need which exists in the world is the need to fuck and come and make a mess of each other.

He'll behave, this time. He'll try.

Shivering, still watching Mycroft with intense need, Greg forces himself to lie still and not thrust. He curls his fingers around Mycroft's hips and focuses on that feeling, that slow rocking, the thick and gorgeous squeeze over and other, pulling pleasure from his cock on every stroke.

"Fuck," he whispers, overwhelmed. Enjoyment shivers across his expression. "Oh s-shit, beautiful - oh god - fuck, that's incredible - "

 

*

 

“Mmmhm?”

Mycroft feels so bloody  _ powerful _ when Greg looks at him like this, like he’s the only person in the world that matters, the only one capable of making him feel this way. He has to bite his tongue to focus and resist the urge to give over to his baser urges to bear down and clench and  _ fuck, _ but he likes it this way as well- slow and savored. 

_ Mine. Mine and I love you. Mine and I want you to be deliriously happy. _

He’d struggled for the first few days Greg had been home, even without the sex- the sight of the bruising across his lover’s body was far too troubling. Much of it has faded now, and Mycroft feels easier in not treating Gregory  _ entirely _ like glass, though he does still worry. 

Seeing him half-lost to pleasure is almost enough to dissipate his remaining concerns. 

“That’s it, beautiful- let me ride that lovely cock- mm, yes, Greg- just enjoy it-”

 

*

 

_ 'Just enjoy it.'  _

Greg doesn't think he'll ever understand how making love can feel like this - powerful and soft at once, lying here while Mycroft enjoys him. He used to feel so vulnerable. It once seemed obvious and inescapable that Mycroft was dominant in bed; now it feels like they've eased past ideas of dominance. There's just closeness and connection, this physical joy, pleasure burning and building between them. The motions of how they reach it almost don't matter. 

_ I want to see you come a thousand times. Ten thousand. _

He wishes he'd counted them - every climax, every cry. He wishes he knew how many times they've shared bedtime like this, soothing and relieving each other after the stresses and scrapes of the world. 

Slow feels so  _ right  _ tonight it leaves Greg shaking a little. He stirs, huffing out a moan as he digs his fingers into Mycroft's waist gently, getting off now on his own frustration - enjoying the pressure of suppression. He keeps his eyes on Mycroft's face.  _ I know you want to chase, sweetheart. I want it, too. I know we're teasing each other. _

_ Fuck me up... you're beautiful. _

Swallowing, Greg slides his hands down to Mycroft's hips - traces the bones there with his thumbs, fond; strokes his fingertips lightly over Mycroft's cock as he rides, barely brushing the hot skin. 

"You're so hard..." He curls his finger beneath Mycroft's cock, an almost feathery tickle against his frenulum. "Missed my prick, love? Desperate for me?"

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a gasp, the rhythm of his movements stuttering just slightly. Even such a light touch draws a bit of precum to the head, dampening it.

_ Oh yes, darling. Desperate for you. Always for you. _

If he could figure out how, he would paint Gregory’s expression when he asks things like that in a bid to capture it: sex-flushed and sensual, loving with a hint of mischief. He was not nearly so confident in the beginning when he was far more hesitant to ask for what he wanted. Now they’re comfortable together, easy and loving.

“Yes,” he exhales. “I love the way you fill me- just right for me. Perfect for me.”

He’s getting close- if Gregory teases him much more he won’t be able to restrain himself. So, while he has the power of conscious thought remaining, Mycroft very deliberately tightens all of his internal muscles, clenching around Greg’s cock as he rocks.

“Are you close for me? Want to come for me?”

 

*

 

Greg lets out an almost choked sound, biting hard into his lip - his hands grip tight at Mycroft's hips.

"M-Myc - "

His hips flex up, searching. His blood feels like it's aching for the nameless and desperate  _ more  _ that Mycroft is so good at bringing him - more pleasure, more closeness, deeper, tighter. He can't fight it. He can feel his jaw clenching, teeth gritting, his hands shaking as he fights not to thrust up into Mycroft's perfect tight heat. 

"Ohh, shit - Myc - "

Greg's voice cuts into a whimper; he swallows, gasping.

"Baby - b-baby, fuck, slower or I'll come - "

 

*

 

Even watching Greg get close enough to whimper, resisting the urge to thrust up, nearly puts Mycroft over the edge himself. One day they’ll work out how to drag this on for hours, possibly with the aid of some toys, but it will not be this day. Mycroft lets the start of it rush through his blood, drawing his bollocks up. His pace quickens, unable to help himself.

“Then come, love- let me watch you- want to see you-”

He moans as he instinctively adjusts to better rub Greg against his prostate, feeling each stroke reverberate within him like a stone thrown into water.  _ Need to touch, I need- _

“ _ Fuck-  _ give me your hand, Greg- please- god-”

 

*

 

"Fuck, oh fuck - d-darlin' - "

Greg grabs for Mycroft's hand. Their fingers knot together, tight. At the same time his other hand pads at Mycroft's hip, just to feel that motion - this hard and restless animal rocking, the rhythm that he knows will make him come. There's no turning back now. He needs this more than he needs to keep breathing.

Bracing his heels against the bed, he gives in with a shuddering groan and finally begins to thrust up in time, panting within seconds. His head screws back into the pillow.

"Oh Jesus, don't stop - don't stop, I  _ need to - " _

 

*

 

“Yes- yes, love- come for me- fill me, beautiful-”

Mycroft tilts forward, leveraging his knees and the strength of his abs, gripping Greg’s fingers with undisguised  _ need  _ on every downward rock. He might be begging- their sounds have begun to blend into an only semi-coherent babble of love and lust, and his mind is too focused on pleasure to bother parsing it.

He wraps his free hand about his cock and strokes, feeling the urge build-

And then he’s coming, crying out as his body bears down and clenches around Greg, spilling over his lover’s stomach.

 

*

 

As Greg feels the spatter across his stomach and Mycroft's body clenching around him, the relief of his lover's pleasure is enough to tip him over the edge. He lets himself break, gasping, only half-aware of his back arching up from the bed and his stomach muscles bunching - this might hurt in the morning. It's fucking worth it, though.

He comes loud, groaning out each wave as they roll through him, holding tight to Mycroft's hand throughout.  _ Take me, darlin'. Take me in you.  _ The rush of relief which follows is enough to make him nearly sob, shivering with it as all his muscles unwind.  _ God, just - ohh, god... _

He's left breathing hard, trembling, his pulse pounding in every inch of his skin. He can feel Mycroft's come shining on his stomach, hot and wet; there's sweat across his forehead.

"Fuck me up," he whispers, squeezing Mycroft's hand. "J-Jesus - I love you... I love you so much..."

He's still murmuring it ten minutes later, as they settle to sleep clean and warm beneath the covers. Their lips stroke gently in the darkness; Greg cups Mycroft's face in his hands.

"You're the world to me," he says. "You're everything in the world... I love you to pieces. You're the best thing in my life."

Their noses rub.

"I'll make you breakfast in the morning, darlin'. Sleep tight."


	23. Chapter 23

In the morning, Mycroft ensures they both get into the shower, carefully helping Gregory with his most sore places. He can tell most of them have shifted from  _ pain _ to something more like  _ discomfort _ , which is good. There is also a healthy amount of kissing under the water, a lovely way for both of them to wake up. 

He doesn’t interfere when Greg makes breakfast, instead taking the time to review his work emails from the table, eyes still mostly on the man he loves as he solves the government’s petty little problems for them. 

Marmalade has joined them, stationed on the end of the counter with a very specific attention to the bacon as it cooks, occasionally mewing at one of her humans as though inquiring why the bacon is not done  _ faster. _

“Bacon is a  _ treat _ , your grace, not a meal,” Mycroft says with a grin. She chirps at him.  _ Mine.  _ “I know. You wish it were so. But Gregory and I would be terribly irresponsible parents if we let you eat just that for a whole meal.”

 

*

  
  


_ 'Parents'.  _ Greg grins as he turns the rashers over in the frying pan, telling himself he's a soft bastard. Not being a father, he doesn't know how people feel about their actual biological children - but if it feels anything like the affection he feels for Marmalade, it's no wonder parenthood is described as a miracle. 

Leaving the bacon for a second to fry, he quickly fills the kettle and sets it boiling again. He'll miss these leisurely two-coffee breakfasts when he's back at work; he's taking every chance he can get.

"You can have a tiny piece of mine, princess," he says, flipping the rashers again with the tongs,  _ "when _ it's cooked."

The little  _ churr _ behind him makes him smile.

As the kettle clicks off, and he makes two fresh coffees, another sound catches Greg's attention - his phone, plugged in to charge across the kitchen, has started to ring. Its steady vibration is sneaking it towards the table edge.

"Love, will you get that for me? Might be Sally - I asked her to hunt down the forms for my extended leave."

 

*

 

More than happy to abandon his emails, Mycroft shifts over from his chair to grab the phone just before it manages to vibrate itself right off the table. He taps it to answer as he pulls out the charging cord, not wanting to be the cause of any holdups in his beloved’s paperwork process.

“Gregory Lestrade’s phone, very attentive boyfriend speaking, how may I assist you?”

The inhale on the other side of the line is definitively masculine. “Ah- hullo, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s hand wraps the back of his chair, knuckles whitening. He ought to just hang up, really. Even the thought of him rather makes Mycroft want to toss furniture. He watches the back of Greg’s head as he speaks. “Andrew. I must say I am a bit surprised to hear from you.” 

“Yeah. Um. He there?”

He sighs, muting his end of the call to make an irritated face. “Gregory, do you wish to speak to your brother, or shall I tell him to launch himself into the sea?”

 

*

 

_ Who the hell is Andrew? _

It takes Greg far longer than it should. 

When it clicks, he turns around in shock - and drops the piece of bacon he was transferring onto his toast. It tumbles from the tongs and bounces a little as it hits the kitchen floor. Swearing quietly, he puts the tongs aside.

Marmalade gets there faster. 

She leaps from the counter and dives between Greg's feet, snatches the entire rasher in her mouth and races for the door with it. Greg makes an unwise attempt to grab her. He gets nowhere near and instead just bends too quickly around his broken rib, making him wince.

As Marmalade's feet can be hurt racing down the stairs, carrying her prize to safety, Greg straightens up and sighs. He meets Mycroft's gaze with an expression of,  _ well, there we go,  _ rubbing at his rib in discomfort.

"I'd... probably better," he says uneasily. "If it's... important. Never know."

He crosses the kitchen, takes the phone from Mycroft, and sits himself down in a chair to answer it. His rib was already aching a little after last night; he's not done himself any favours.

Sighing, he unmutes the call and holds the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?" he says, experiencing a sudden overwhelming urge for a cigarette.

He hears his twin breathe in, preparing something. 

"Greg, it's - it's me."

"Yeah, I know it's you. Who else sounds like us?" Greg lifts a hand to rub between his eyes, reminding himself he did try to kill Andy. Civility won't hurt. "What's wrong?"

There's an uncomfortable pause. 

"Thought we could talk," Andy says.

Greg lifts his eyes from his hand to Mycroft, his expression opening in quiet disbelief. "You want to talk?" he repeats for Mycroft's benefit. "What about?"

 

*

 

Mycroft shakes his head, aligned with his partner’s opinion that Andy  _ wanting to talk _ sounds ridiculous. He’d done something egregiously stupid, but Mycroft had made it worth his while to ensure the fallout was never reported. Even if he wanted to throttle the man for the damage he’d done to Greg. Damage that still hasn’t healed.

He turns off the burners and jogs down the stairs after Marmalade. After a brief negotiation primarily consisting of speed and distraction, he returns upstairs with half a rasher that is immediately placed into a sandwich baggie with Marmalade’s name written in fine lettering across it and the date, then placed into the fridge.

“You can have the rest in a day or two,” he says when she finishes the remainder and returns upstairs to protest having her stolen treat stolen back. “An entire rasher is not good for you. Eat your bikkies instead.” She grumble-chrrs at him. “Yes, I know. Strict papa is terrible. What about a dental treat?”

She makes another grumbly noise as the treat lands in her bowl, but she still eats it.  _ Acceptable, but I have not forgotten. _

Mycroft plates up the rest of breakfast, listening to Greg as he sets them both up at the table. Even chasing Marmalade about, he’d kept his ears on the conversation. His hand snakes across the table, reaching for Greg’s. 

_ I’m here, love. Tell him whatever you need to.  _

_ I love you. _

 

*

 

Greg is doing rather more listening than talking. He watches Mycroft and Marmalade disagree on the equivalency of stolen bacon and dental treats, torn between a desperate smile and his frown at his twin, who he can hear smoking in the background as Andy stumbles through what he has to say. 

As Mycroft joins him at the table, Greg reaches automatically for his hand. Their fingers tangle; it's comforting enough for Greg to take his first breath in a couple of minutes. His expression remains dark and rather guarded as he listens some more, his gaze lowered to the table-top.

At last, there comes pause enough for him to speak.

"Look, it's - not that easy."

Andy begins to speak again. Greg rolls his eyes, sits up a little, and does something he's wanted to do for nearly three decades now.

"Andy," he says, his voice firm.  _ "Shut up,  _ will you? If you just want to bang on, I can send you to my voicemail. If you want to talk to me,  _ let me talk." _

There's a pause. 

Greg exhales.

"Thank you," he says, still quietly annoyed. "Listen, we're - not doing this over the phone. You can't just ring me up and say a few things and... you - you fucked my wife, Andy. It doesn't matter if she fucked a lot of people. You weren't meant to do that to me. You're my brother. You're meant to be better. That's not a one phone-call apology."

He listens for a moment, gazing across the kitchen - unaware he's started rubbing the base of Mycroft's third finger, where a wedding ring would lie.

"No, Andy. Not in a café. I've had enough of my private life being discussed in public. If you want to talk to me, you - "

Greg hesitates, then glances at Mycroft. He squeezes his lover's hand.

" - you can come here, where I live. With my partner. You can come in for coffee and talk to me like I'm forty-six."

 

*

 

Mycroft is acutely aware of which finger Greg is rubbing. His heart stutters, but now isn’t the time- only a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks betrays the turmoil the gesture has caused in his mind,  a cacophony of  _ yes, mine, marry me. _

He swallows, returning himself to the conversation at hand, and not the one he’s putting aside in his head, which involves a ring and a bended knee. He nods, encouraging Greg, squeezing his hand back. 

_ Of course, love. Let him see.  _

_ And if he has any plans for retaliation security can always shoot him. _

He sips his juice, thinking. There will be time to set the stage, as it were- would it be better to lean homey and lived in? What aesthetic says  _ exceptionally gay and will cut you if you hurt my partner? _

After a while, there must be an acceptance of the offer. The address is discussed, there’s a somewhat perfunctory ring-off.

Mycroft squeezes Greg’s hand. “Are you alright, love?”

 

*

 

Greg lays the phone down in silence, feeling strangely and nervously numb.  _ Andy,  _ he thinks,  _ here. Here where Marmalade is. Here where Myc and I cook together. Here where we make love at night.  _ He knows it has to be this way - if he's going to speak to Andy anywhere, it needs to be in Mycroft's territory. It needs to be in the gorgeous home Greg shares with the man who adores him, not a Starbucks somewhere with people glancing curiously at the identical twins, Andy aware of an audience. 

All the same, it's a daunting prospect.

Turning to Mycroft, Greg wraps his arms nervously around his lover's waist and pulls him close. 

As they nuzzle together, he takes a deep breath.

"Can you pick me out a shirt that says 'my terms or piss off'?" he asks against Mycroft's shoulder, his voice a little muffled.

 

*

 

“I’m sure we can come up with something.” 

Mycroft brushes his hand through Greg’s hair, caressing and soothing. This is a brave thing Greg is doing. It would have been brave enough had Andy  _ just _ slept with Karen, but now there’s a minor matter of attempted fratricide to deal with as well. Somewhat accidental and unplanned, of course- and, though Mycroft dislikes thinking about the origin, Gregory did start it- but Mycroft has not yet forgiven Andy for his part in things.

He’s not sure if he ever will.

“If you like we can keep him downstairs. Parlor-room, like the ministers I don’t care for.” It’s not really part of the house, in Mycroft’s head- but it is a neutral, private space.

“Whatever you’d like is fine, darling. I’m also not opposed to running out and getting about fifteen rainbow flags to decorate with. Just for emphasis.”

He kisses Greg’s temple fondly, nuzzling closer.

 

*

 

Greg takes a breath. "Y-Yeah... parlour would be better. Move a photo-frame or two down, maybe. Some of Marmalade's toys. So it looks like we, erm - actually live there."

He doesn't want Andy to think he now lives under the dominion of some stuck-up politician who won't allow him any personal touches in the house. At the same time, he doesn't really want to see Andy sitting on their couch, where they sit at night to watch television. 

The thought of rainbow flags makes his stomach squeeze a little. He's not sure he's ready for that just yet. 

He leans into Mycroft's kiss, shivering.

"He's not having any cake," he mumbles. "Will you be there, please? I - k-kinda need to know if he's serious about this. I need to see if he'll be polite to you or if he's still a shit. Because if he is, he can get fucked."

 

*

 

“Of course.” Mycroft wouldn’t dream of abandoning Greg for this. Not with Andy. 

_ Never again. _

He’s tempted to wear his suit-armor for this, but it’s not quite the right setting. Something casual will be better for himself- but he’ll help Greg with clothing-armor of his own. Let him be the intimidating one.

A soft smile crosses his lips.  _ I bet he’ll look quite handsome. _

“I’ll pop out and get some flowers, hm? And a few more picture frames. We can decorate.” The printer in the office does photos, though prior to Greg it had never printed many that weren’t long-distance surveillance or satellite. He kisses his lover again, soft and gentle. “And we shall not even mention the cake to him.”

His fingers curl over Greg’s shoulder, stroking in soothing presses.

_ I love you. I’ll be here. _

“Have some breakfast, love? Your coffee must be cooling.”

 

*

 

Greg finds himself softening under the little kisses. Mycroft is incredibly good at breaking past his nerves - it's difficult to cling onto dread when his lover is using  _ that _ voice, those gentle words, the soothing strokes which make the world feel like a better place. 

"Yeah, I... I'd better drink this," he says, reaching for the mug. "Then I'll get a shower and a shave." 

It's a shame about his bacon sandwich, but it looks like Marmalade is more upset about the loss than he is. She's finished her bikkies and is now standing hopefully by the fridge, waiting for one of them to notice her and give her bacon back.

Looking up into Mycroft's eyes, Greg draws a stiff breath and tries a smile.

"Can't go worse than last time I saw him."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s face twitches, torn between an exasperated smile and a grimace. The smile wins out. At least Greg can joke about it, now. 

“Mmm. I suppose I should let security know. So no one shoots him preemptively.”

That statement is slightly less in jest, because the security team  _ likes _ Greg. He’d heard from Anthea more than once after Gregory returned with him from the hospital that any number of  _ accidents _ had been suggested for Andy. Mycroft had declined. With Karen out of the way, there is a chance, albeit a small one, that Andy will recall how to be an adult and not a complete arsehole. 

Time will tell.

“Try that midnight blue shirt. I think that will send a subtle message.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to Greg’s mouth, inhaling the scent of coffee wafting up from Greg’s mug.

“And it will make it quite clear who the handsomer twin is, at any rate.”

 

*

 

"Nnhhh." Greg reaches out, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's waist and tugging him closer to cuddle. "It's me," he protests, as he nuzzles into Mycroft's collarbones. "Whether I'm wearing a posh shirt or not."

When he can finally bring himself to let Mycroft go, Greg gets a bowl of cereal into his stomach then heads upstairs to get clean. The bruises in his face aren't completely healed yet; he's hoping a proper shave will stop him looking like a thug. He feels a little pathetic for doing it, but he takes the time to put some product in his hair to spike it up. He knows things like this shouldn't matter. This feels like a second first impression, though - when Andy walks in, Greg wants him to see someone perfectly at ease with himself and his life. He doesn't want to be on the back foot. 

He puts some aftershave on, wriggles into fresh boxer shorts and hangs up his towel, proceeding into the bedroom to find Marmalade has had the belt out of his dressing gown again. She's currently tangled up in it on the floor and squirming on her back, kicking seven shades out of the thing as she fights it.

"You scamp. Give it here - "

Marmalade, delighted he's come to play, scampers after the belt as Greg pulls it free. She pounces and pins the escaping snake, savaging it between her paws. 

Greg can't help it - she's too sweet to ignore. He sits on the end of the bed to play with her for a few minutes, teasing her with the cord as she dances after it.

"You might meet your Uncle Andy today, princess," he tells her. "He's a bit of a bell-end, alright? He might make me sad. I'll need extra hugs afterwards."

Marmalade - busy vanquishing the fuzzy belt - doesn't reply.

 

*

 

Mycroft goes out briefly to acquire a nice flower arrangement- the florist has a good giggle when he requests one that means “ _ go to hell and stay there, _ ” but the result is pretty all the same. That goes on the table in the parlour in one of his typically unused vases. 

Finding neither lover nor cat on the main floor, he drifts upward again to the bedroom just in time to overhear Greg’s last comment. He pauses a moment. It’s something Greg’s been working on in their counseling- knowing that it’s alright to be upset with other people, not just blaming himself after years of Karen conditioning him. 

It feels… healthy, in a way, to hear him phrase it like this.

_ You shall have extra hugs after regardless. _

“Is her grace helping you get ready?” he asks as he slips in, kissing Greg on the cheek. “Or is she taming imaginary dragons?”

 

*

 

"Dragons," Greg admits with a smile, enjoying the little kiss on his cheek. He leans into Mycroft gently. "Just wanted a few minutes with her... remind me what matters. Even if Andy gives me grief, I've got you guys."

Marmalade flips onto her back again, kicking the belt in a frenzy as it twirls and dances above her. Even when playfighting, she has a gentleness to her bites and scratches - Greg can't remember ever seeing her play with other cats at the café. She only does it now she's home.

_ I wish they'd hurry up and let us have you home forever, princess. I really do. _

Resting his cheek on Mycroft's shoulder, Greg murmurs,

"Not sure what I want from Andy. What... 'success' would feel like. Is that bad?"

 

*

 

“I don’t think so. We’ll hear him out, and that is all we are obligated to do. From there you can decide if he has any chances left.” 

Mycroft strokes Greg’s hair. He smells of his bath products, clean and fresh in a terribly pleasing way.  _ Like home.  _

“I love you. Whatever you want from him, whatever feels right, I shall support you.”

Nestling in, wrapping his arm about Greg’s shoulder, he plants another kiss within the locks of silver and grey. 

“I picked up a few frames as well. We’ll print off whatever photos you like. And… I have one other idea that I shall show you when you come down.” He smiles, a light flush on his cheeks. He has been crafty about this, which was somewhat challenging with both of them in the house so much lately, but perhaps putting it in the parlour now is a… good start. “It is a surprise.”

 

*

 

The corner of Greg's mouth curls with quiet interest. "Okay..." he says, amused. "Sounds interesting." 

He wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft  _ has  _ finally commissioned someone to sculpt him, and there's a marble-cast of him posed like a Greek athlete, pride of place in the centre of the parlour. 

_ At least that'll be the last we ever see of Andy,  _ he thinks.

As Mycroft nuzzles into his hair, he smiles and nuzzles back. This sort of gentle domestic affection will never stop being a wonder to him. He never really had it before - and yet it comes so easily with Mycroft. As the days have gone by, it's becoming harder to let go of each other, not easier. 

The more love they share, the more Greg wants.

"We should re-use the frames," he murmurs. "Y'know... when he's gone. Bring them up here, put them around the house..." He gazes up from Mycroft's shoulder, hopeful. He's still in the stage of asking about every tiny change to the place, even though he's not seen a single one turned down. "We should get Marmalade a pet photoshoot. I've seen them before. Someone comes round to your house, gives them a professional grooming, then takes proper photos... she'd love the attention."

His eyes brighten.

"You could have one for your home office."

 

*

 

“That sounds lovely.”

Mycroft wonders if Marmalade will notice if her own face is everywhere about the house. He suspects she would. She certainly would think she deserves the adoration.

“We need a few more pictures of us, as well.” It’s not as though they go out very often in the kind of socializing that yields clever little romantic candids. He still wants a few just of Gregory as well. Perhaps ones where he isn’t entirely dressed….

He squeezes Greg’s shoulder, breaking off that thought before he causes Andy to arrive to a scene of a very different sort of domestic bliss.  _ Fortifications now. Cuddles later. _

“Finish getting dressed and go pick out some photos. I’ll lay out the frames for you and then you can come see your surprise.”

 

*

 

Greg was planning to spend the day in old jeans and a jumper - it feels strange putting trousers and a shirt on. He stands in the mirror, quietly doing up the buttons, and holds his own gaze with care. He knows it's performance. He just hopes it'll hold. He puts on the watch he was given for his twenty-first birthday; it matches Andy's. He even puts some cologne under his jaw. 

It's not for Andy. 

It's for Greg. The smell reminds him of his first dates with Mycroft. Those were the nights on which his life changed forever, and he's not going back to what he was before.

Dressed, he heads to Mycroft's office and clicks quickly through their photos. They need more - lots more. Holidays, birthdays and memories. He selects a range and prints them out, handing them to Mycroft as they pass in the kitchen. 

As he's gathering up a couple of Marmalade's toys, Long Monkey and one of her soft beds, the doorbell goes.

_ Oh - shit -  _

Early. 

Andy's come early.

 

*

 

Mycroft at least has time to get a couple pictures set- one on the piano and one by the flowers. That will have to do. In a way, it sends its own message:  _ This is for show. You aren’t welcome in the spaces we truly inhabit.  _

Frankly, Andy is lucky either of them are considering letting him past the foyer. 

His other parcel remains wrapped and carefully tucked into the closet, behind his rarely used winter boots and a long cloak. It has been a good hiding place so far and can remain so for a bit longer. He must keep that in mind when it comes to holiday presents. 

He steps through the interior door, glancing at himself in the foyer mirror- shirtsleeves and a vest. It’s dressed down, for him, but there’s an advantage in that- Greg will look even more regal. He smooths his hair- he can hear Greg on the stairs, a bit hidden by the door- hopefully he’s had enough time to toss some cat accoutrements over. 

Mycroft exhales once, readying his politician’s neutrally cordial smile, and opens the door. “Andrew. Won’t you come in?”


	24. Chapter 24

As the door opens, and Andy gets a look inside the imposing address he's come to, his face registers the phrase  _ holy shit  _ as clearly as if he'd breathed it. He's looking far from his best - his clothes are unironed, his stubble is edging into an unkempt beard, and he has the look of someone who's spent several uncomfortable nights on couches of friends. 

Seeing Mycroft's crisp and casual attire, he visibly pales a little.  _ Andrew  _ takes him down another notch, too. Before he's even opened his mouth, he's clearly questioning his decision to come.

Shoulders stiffening, gathering together what little personal presence he has left, he says,

"Erm - 'Mycroft', right? H'lo."

He hesitates, holding out a hand.

"Thanks, for..."

 

*

 

“Of course.” Mycroft’s smile thins slightly, but he takes Andy’s hand regardless. It’s the civil thing to do. 

He stands aside to beckon Andy in, gesturing toward the sitting area near the piano. Long Monkey has apparently made it over the side, and Marmalade is on the steps, watching through the bannister with curiosity as to why her toys are being rearranged and who the stranger is that looks like but does not smell like her human. “Do have a seat. Gregory? Darling, your brother is here.” 

He glances up the stairs as Greg comes down, like he hadn’t been there a minute before chucking a cat toy, and his smile softens. Gregory looks  _ wonderful.  _ The blue is indeed an excellent choice. “Shall I put the kettle on?” Mycroft asks his partner, the steel he’d laid in as a shield to his own feelings about Andy departing his voice entirely. The question is not for Andy, of course. It’s Greg’s decision whether Andy is even offered tea, or if the visit will even be long enough to merit it. Either way, Mycroft will not leave the room with the two of them alone in it unless Greg wants him to.

_ You look beautiful,  _ he says with his eyes.  _ My brave love. _

 

*

 

_ God. _

The look in Mycroft's eyes won't soon be forgotten. Greg feels his heart give a distinct tug, smiling a little as he steps off the stairs. It's not his true, full smile - his lips are closed and he's guarded - but his eyes are warm as they meet Mycroft's.

"That'd be great," he says. He turns his gaze to Andy, hovering nervously by the piano and trying not to touch anything. "Tea? Coffee?"

Andy coughs a little. "Coffee'd be..."

Greg glances at his partner gently. "Thanks, Myc."

He moves over to Andy, watched by Marmalade with rounded eyes. She also gives Mycroft a small look of bewilderment as he passes her on the way to make coffee, offering him a gentle trill.

By the piano, the two brothers come face-to-face for the first time since Greg had Andy by the throat. There's a long moment as they look at each other, Andy a little wary. 

For the first time in his life, Greg has the strange impression of being the taller twin.

"You're - staying with him, then?" Andy says. "Here?"

"I live here," Greg says, calmly. "Myc's just finalising the paperwork then it'll be official. He's got a minor position in the government, so security's an issue."

Andy looks around the room, a little cowed by the unconcealed wealth. "He's a big deal, is he?"

Greg bites the side of his tongue.

"Yeah, Andy. He is a big deal."

Andy takes this in, the additional meaning not lost on him. He glances down as Marmalade comes padding across with Long Monkey in her mouth, bringing the toy to Greg.

"His cat likes you, anyway," Andy tries. "S'a good sign."

Greg bends down for her. 

"She's not his cat," he says, lifting Marmalade gently into his arms. "She's  _ our _ cat. We're fostering her."

Marmalade peers at Andy with quiet distrust, settling against Greg's chest like a dream. 

Her tail flicks a little. 

 

*

 

Mycroft makes the coffee as well as he might for any meeting. He might not entirely trust Andy not to be a shit to Greg, but he is certain there will be no violence. Not this time. 

They can have a bit of time while it brews, regardless. Besides, this gives him a chance to demonstrate that Greg is not his play thing, nor merely his bit of rough. They are equals.

He pulls out a rarely used tea tray to carry the lot downstairs, complete with cream and sugar. There are even biscuits- no cake, however. It is, in its tacit way, a demonstration of knowledge. Smiling as he comes down, he makes Greg’s coffee up first, perfectly as he likes it, without asking for his preferences, handing it off with warmth and a “darling.”

_ See how well I know him? _

He could analyze Andy’s preferred cup, of course, but this way is far more  _ polite. _

_ Polite with teeth. _

“Cream or sugar, Andrew?”

 

*

 

Greg's smile is expressed as the tiniest twitch of his mouth. Andy hasn't been called Andrew since they were kids; the last person to use his Sunday name was probably an angry teacher telling him to sit up and pay attention. 

"Erm - both, thanks." Andy watches uneasily as his coffee is made up for him, taking it at last with muttered thanks.

Marmalade, ever the close reader of her humans, has clearly identified there is something less-than-welcome about this man. She's sitting on Greg's lap but not asleep, perfectly comfortable as she stares Andy out without a blink. She doesn't purr as Greg strokes her, too vigilant for that.

There comes a tense pause, as it's realised all the rituals of polite greeting have now been completed. All that's left is to talk.

Andy lifts his eyes from his coffee cup, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Lizzie's left me," he begins.

Greg raises an eyebrow. "I know she did. We spoke to her a few days ago."

Andy hesitates - this is a surprise. "You... rang her, did you?"

"No, she rang me. Wondering how I was." Greg reaches for his coffee. "Please tell me you're not surprised she left."

Andy's jaw works a little. He wears the look of a man who's realised he has little choice now but to acknowledge his transgressions, but isn't happy about it in the least. "It was all a mistake," he says. "A stupid mistake. I didn't think - "

" - you'd get caught," Greg finishes, quietly.

Andy breathes in. "M'sorry."

" - sorry you got caught."

"I'm sorry, I mean it. It just... got out of hand. You know what she was like, Greg."

Greg's jaw sets. 

"She was  _ my wife," _ he says, his voice hard, "and you're  _ my brother. _ Just because she was unfaithful doesn't mean she was a free-for-all. Just because she treated me like shit doesn't mean you were allowed to get onboard."

There's an uncomfortable silence. Andy lowers his eyes to the carpet, his shoulders stiff.

Greg steels himself; he carries on.

"She tried to fuck Mycroft's brother too," he says. "D'you know what came out of it?  _ He said no, _ Andy. She got bored. She wandered off. Case closed. Why didn't you say no? Because you didn't care enough about me not to do that."

Andy doesn't say anything, gazing at Greg in pained silence.

"I never even crossed your mind, did I?" Greg says. "You're a shit, Andy. And you're selfish."

 

*

 

Mycroft sips his coffee. He isn’t needed to pile on here. Andy clearly knows he’s made errors, he might even be beginning to grasp their magnitude. Mycroft watches Greg instead. There’s a confidence there, a comfort with- if not all that has happened- enough of it that he can speak of it clearly. 

He’s proud of Greg. Very proud. His love can defend himself in a way he hadn’t been able to even a month ago. It’s a beautiful thing to see.

_ “She tried to fuck Mycroft’s brother too.” _

His cup stills in midair, a brief pause as his mind absorbs that. Had Greg not forgiven Sherlock for his part? 

It takes him longer than he’d usually like to convince his emotions to stop their slide and  _ listen,  _ listen to the rest of what Greg says.

_ He’s an example. Greg is setting him as a good example. Making Sherlock a… model of action, compared to Andy. _

He buries the quiet noise that threatens to escape him with another sip, pushing the lump back down his throat. No one has ever defended Sherlock, no one holds him up a paragon of anything.  _ No one but me. _ And yet here is his love being… kind, when Sherlock is not even present, when there is no one to perform it for.

_ Because it’s true. Gregory is honest. He’s always been honest. _

And perhaps a bit more generous than even Mycroft had expected, considering he refrains from mentioning that instead of sex he had procured cocaine instead.

While reaching for a biscuit, Mycroft slips his hand behind Greg’s shoulders and brushes his thumb against his partner’s spine.  _ You are doing so well, love. _

_ I love you. _

 

*

 

Greg feels the stroke of Mycroft's thumb between his shoulders like it's across his soul - gentle, perfect, reaching beneath all the old emotional scar tissue as if it just doesn't exist. The words he was about to say stick in his throat a little. He could yell at Andy for several hours, if nobody intervened.

Then, he could have put his twin beyond his reach forever - if nobody had intervened.

He pauses, letting it come back to him: the fact he wishes wasn't a fact. He'd gotten so angry and broken up inside that for just a few seconds, extinguishing Andy from the world had seemed like the right choice to make. If he'd gone through with it, he'd have spent years of his life in a cell thinking about his brother.

It wouldn't have been wishing to yell at him.

Greg feels his heart thump strangely, watching his brother look down into his untouched cup of coffee. Andy's not saying anything - he's not arguing anymore, not protesting, just listening and waiting for more.

There's a long silence. 

Greg forces himself to speak.

"Why're you here?" he asks, his voice tight.

Andy looks up. His eyes are a little round, surprised and unsure. He doesn't seem to know what to say. He glances at Mycroft nervously, as if he'll find some hint or answer written there.

"What do you want?" Greg says.

It takes Andy a long time to respond.

"Just - thought I should come see you." He hesitates, looking away. He can't say this looking into Greg's face. "Tell you m'sorry."

Greg hesitates, letting that sink and settle in his heart. 

"You fucked up," he says. His fingers curl in Marmalade's fur, masking a slight tremor. "You know you did."

Andy nods in silence, gazing at his brother.

"Not just with - ... you've fucked up a lot. For a long time."

Andy nods again.

"You were rude as hell to Mycroft," Greg says, stiffly. "You don't know how much that hurt."

"It - it was just a  _ shock. _ I mean - suddenly, you're  _ gay? _ After all this time?"

"I had boyfriends. When we were younger."

Andy's forehead tightens. "I never saw you with any."

"Yeah, well... look how you reacted the first time you  _ did,  _ Andy. Looks like I made the right choice hiding it. Then Karen outed me - you remember? I didn't want you to find out that way. You're telling me it's a shock like I chose to shock you with it."

Andy says nothing, holding his coffee cup rather tightly.

"You can apologise to Mycroft," Greg says, and how his voice stays steady as he says it, he'll never know. Somehow he manages it. "Otherwise I don't wanna know. Mycroft's me now, Andy. Part of me. Part of my life."

Andy takes this in, his expression quiet and pale. He looks up at Mycroft, meeting his eyes - and with visible effort he says,

"M'sorry. For - I-I was out of line. Well out of line. You seem - ..." He swallows, his shoulders tightening. "And G-Greg's really happy. S'what matters. M'really sorry."

 

*

 

Mycroft steadies his cup and lowers it smoothly. He cannot recall the last time someone has been ordered to apologize to  _ him _ over a slight of any sort. Sherlock, perhaps, by their parents. Repeatedly. But typically Mycroft does not worry about how such things affect him- he’s been far more worried this entire time about Gregory and his well-being.

_ And look, he takes the time to care for mine. _

“Thank you, Andy.” Mycroft wants to wrap Gregory up in his arms and ignore Andy entirely, but… he must concede that Andy is making an effort.  _ Trying.  _ Despite all that has happened. He deserves the same in turn.

“I am glad we can agree that we both wish for Greg to be happy.”

His thumb glides along Greg’s back again, tracing the ridges of his spine. He casts a glance sideways, watching Greg’s face.  _ Might do to offer your own, love.  _ Mycroft knows Greg would never have forgiven himself if he’d managed to do any real damage to his brother, let alone… anything further. 

It might help to acknowledge that too. 

_ I love you, darling. You are being so strong.  _

 

*

 

Greg understands at once the glance he's given. He doesn't really need it - he can't remember the last time Andy apologised like that to anyone, for anything. A month ago he wouldn't have imagined ever seeing it in his life. He's not surprised it's taken the loss of... well,  _ everything,  _ to prompt this sort of change.

It's good to see the change, anyway.

Andy didn't have to come here. Considering how Greg behaved towards him last time they met, it's actually pretty brave.

Greg glances down at Marmalade, telling himself it's never too late for second chances.

"Andy, when I... when Karen told me you'd - ... I-I just lost it. I'd misunderstood some other stuff that day and I... I thought I'd lost everything. I've never been that angry."

Andy exhales shakily. "Never seen you like that."

"Listen, I - I'm not sorry for the anger. I'm sorry it got..."

"S'fine."

"No, Andy, I mean it. It got way too - "

"It did, but..." Andy clears his throat, uneasy. "I'd've punched me too." He glances at the pair of them, then at Marmalade as she stretches on Greg's lap and nudges his hand. "She told me you'd split."

"Who?"

Andy visibly doesn't want to say the name - like it'll rise her from the dead here in front of them. "Karen."

Greg rolls his eyes. 

"She said a lot of things," he mutters. He tickles quietly under Marmalade's chin, settling her. "M'sorry for how bad I got, Andy. M'sorry it was you I lashed out at. Karen was like that. Always made sure it was someone else holding the gun."

Andy says nothing, though his eyes show agreement. "Suspected she had a few other men, to be honest."

"Yeah. You weren't anything special, mate."

Reluctant humour twists Andy's mouth. "Tell me about it."

On Greg's lap, Marmalade rolls onto her back so she can gaze up at Mycroft. Her paws reach out to him hopefully, pressing against his leg. She gives a soft trill.

"She's nice," Andy says, regarding her fluffy white tummy.

 

*

 

Mycroft slides his fingertips across Greg’s shoulder as he draws his arm back, the better to indulge her royal fluffiness with. “She is the lady of the household, and terribly spoiled.” Marmalade chirps at him agreeably as his fingers find her fluff, softly starting to purr.

He glances from brother to brother. Already the air feels much less chilly and hostile than it had when Andy had arrived. He can almost see it now, the parts of Andy that could have had the potential to become more like Greg, before they were worn and hardened. And vice versa.

_ I wonder if Sherlock and I look like that to others. _

Glancing at Greg a moment for permission, he carefully lifts their fluffy girl up and carries her to sit in his lap in the chair beside Andy. “Do you like cats?” Closer now to the stranger, her little face reaches closer, her nose scrunching as she tries to work out all the things he smells of. “Marmalade, this is your uncle Andy.” She looks up at Andy and chirps cautiously. 

“If you offer her some attention you might find yourself promoted to favorite uncle, though I fear my own brother has set a bit of a low bar on that front.”

He looks back at Greg, a little smile at the edge of his mouth as Andy extends his fingertips to let Marmalade smell him better. 

_ Not so bad, my love.  _

_ Perhaps still not deserving of cake, but… not so bad. _

 

*

 

"Always had cats, growing up." Andy glances at his brother as he says it, eyes crinkling at the edges - shared memories. Greg smiles, too. "Moggies, though. Not like..."

Marmalade trills. 

Andy's eyes brighten, his fingers moving gently under her chin - carefully fluffing her fur.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, he seems to realise he's perhaps showing his softer side here. He shifts and tries a mumbled joke at Greg.

"Probably just thinks I'm you," he says. 

He keeps stroking Marmalade's chin, though. Greg smiles, amused by the pleased look he's now receiving from Marmalade. Her eyes close with enjoyment as she purrs.

"You'll smell different," Greg says. "Smells matters more to them than sight."

Marmalade begins rubbing her chin around Andy's hand to scent-mark him; he tickles behind her ear. Her purr deepens.  _ Also mine.  _

"D'you want to come round for dinner some time?" Greg asks. "Next week, maybe... you - look like you've had a rough few weeks."

Andy's eyebrows lift. "You - sure?"

"Only if you want," says Greg. "There's more for us to talk about, and... well, it's been a while."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be... if you're sure."

Greg turns his gaze to Mycroft, hopefully. A tiny smile lifts his mouth. "You don't mind, do you?"

 

*

 

Mycroft smiles back. “I think it’s a lovely idea.”

Andy leaves not long after. Small talk is not an area they excel in, as a group, but… Mycroft feels far more optimistic about this now than he had previously. He turns back to his love after he closes the door, watching Marmalade out of the corner of his eye as she steals Andy’s recently vacated and pre-warmed seat.

“Well? How do you feel?”

He slips back onto the loveseat, taking Greg’s hand and studying his face fondly, listening to the quiet rumble of Marmalade’s sleepy purrs.

“I thought that went better than expected. You did wonderfully, love.”

 

*

 

As well as it all seemed to go, now Andy has gone Greg feels like he can breathe again. He moves a little nearer to Mycroft, slides his arms around his lover's waist and settles hopefully into a closer hug, resting his chin on Mycroft's shoulder.

He's not sure he and Andy have addressed each other so much like adults in their lives.

He takes a moment to speak, breathing in his partner's scent and letting the quiet of their home wrap around them.

"It's not all sorted yet," he murmurs. "I mean - he seems like he wants to make changes, but... I guess we'll have to see." 

 

*

 

“It’s always wait and see with some people, love.” Sherlock comes to mind for that as well. “You are letting him try, and trying in return. That is enough to start with.”

Mycroft wraps Greg up in a close embrace. He is proud of both of them. It’s quite difficult to make such an effort, especially with the challenges of family and strife alongside it. His hand winds into Greg’s hair, soothing and reassuring in gentle strokes.

His eyes drift to the closet. Perhaps Greg has had enough excitement for today… though a part of Mycroft wants to share it immediately. He knows Greg will be thrilled, and watching Gregory be thrilled will be half the reward.

“May I offer you your surprise, love? Or have you had enough of the unexpected today?”

 

*

 

Greg smiles at once. He cuddles a little closer into Mycroft's arms, leans up and kisses his partner's cheek.

"What kind of surprise is it?" he asks, and though his tone is playful, he can't quite stop his heart jumping to a very farfetched and optimistic conclusion. It would have been nice to greet Andy into the parlour with a brand new engagement ring on his hand, but he doubts very much such a step has even crossed Mycroft's mind. 

_ Might not even believe in marriage.  _

_ God, I have to stop doing this to myself.  _

Pulling back to give his lover a smile, his eyes bright, Greg says,

"Surprise me, darlin'."

 

*

 

Mycroft leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Gregory’s mouth.  _ My beautiful love. _ “You must close your eyes first. No peeking. This will take a moment to prepare.”

Once Gregory has placed his hands over his eyes, Mycroft slips from the loveseat and sneaks to the closet, carefully opening it- this really has been a good hiding place, and he’d like to be able to keep utilizing it for gifts in the future.  _ Many, many gifts. Every birthday, every Christmas… every anniversary…. _

Inside the closet there are four items of import, two of them framed. He draws them out as a unit and strategically hides one of the framed items behind the couch. The other he hangs up on the wall, replacing a dreary historical scene he had had never liked anyway but was suitably boring to sit in the room he puts the ministers who come to call.

This is far more… whimsical.

It is a landscape, at first glance, though if one looks for more than a moment they will see the beaver dam, the beaver hard at work building as a cat sleeps on the logs above. 

And below them both, shredding the wreckage of a ship in dark waters and handing up the wood, is a massive squid. 

He settles back on the couch with two crisp pieces of paper in one hand as he wraps the other about Greg’s shoulders and kisses him once more on the cheek. “Very patient, love, thank you. You may look now.”

 

*

 

It's hell not to peek. Only the knowledge that Mycroft will know within a second if Greg attempts it keeps his hands over his eyes. He listens with interest to the tiny sounds he hears, unable to pinpoint them in the unfamiliar room. He catches the gentle clunk of something being hung up on the wall -  _ what the hell?  _ \- and feels Mycroft come sit down again beside him.

As the all clear is given, and Mycroft kisses him on the cheek, Greg turns his head at once towards the wall.

His first reaction is a tiny flash of panic - he knows nothing at all about art, and if this is some significant painting he's meant to recognise, he's going to disappoint Mycroft.

He then spots the giant squid beneath the water. His heart tightens at once.

"Oh  _ my god - " _

He gets up from the sofa at once, rushing over to see.

"Oh god, you - you actually - and that's - oh Jesus, there she is! Oh god - "

It feels like years ago. Falling in love across a restaurant table, having dinner with the man who seemed to appear in his life like a miracle. Those three questions had kept them talking all night. It's the animal responses he remembers - the squid Mycroft would be, if he could choose any animal, and the beaver who has only ever wanted a safe and happy home.

As Mycroft appears at his side, Greg throws his arms around him without a second thought.

"I can't believe you got it painted - h-holy shit - I love you so much - "

 

*

 

Mycroft laughs, terribly pleased by Greg’s excitement, and kisses his lover like he’s taking in air. Gregory happy and joyous is as necessary to his own life as  _ breathing.  _

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I am so glad you like it, love. The artist was quite engaging to work with. I believe she enjoyed painting something… a bit odd.”

He’d requested it months ago- perhaps presumptively, at that point, but certainly part of him saw how quickly their bond grew. Of course he would eventually ask Greg to move in. Of course they would share a home. A home, just like the beaver dam, that they make together.

“I thought it would be fitting to present it to you when these were also ready….” 

Mycroft wraps his arm about Greg’s waist, drawing him in as he turns the papers in his hand over. Each are a bit formal, in their own way, even bearing the proper seals in one case. “ _ Adoption Agreement,” _ one reads along the top, while the other starts with various  _ “Classified Document” _ warnings before reaching the more important part:  _ “Certification of Domiciled Partnership.” _

He nuzzles into Greg’s hair.

_ Mine.  _

_ Ours. _

 

*

 

Greg takes the papers carefully, wondering what it is he's been given. Paperwork is an unusual gift - it's a very Mycroftian gift, and it makes Greg smile even to realise it.

He reads the certification first.

A lot of it is lost on him - legalese, procedure and formality - but the sight of their names together, typed in bold capitals, is enough to bring a gloss to his eyes. 

_ Official now. _

_ Home now. _

This place has felt like home all along. They don't need a document to say it. This was where they came on the night of their first real date, and since then Greg has only ever left it for a short while. His heart is here.

Now it's signed and sealed, and he lives with the man he loves.

And...

_ 'Adoption agreement'. _

It takes Greg far longer than it should. He gets right to her name before he understands - they've been fostering her so long now he's tried to push it from his mind, unable to bear the thought she might have to go home some day.

But there it is, for real - and for good.

 

_ MISS MARMALADE HOLMES-LESTRADE _

 

As Greg starts to cry, he puts his arms around Mycroft's neck. The papers shake in his hand. 

He doesn't remember ever holding somebody so tightly.

_ 'I'll be your family',  _ Mycroft had said.

He promised - and now here they are.

 

*

 

For a moment, Mycroft is thrown- Greg is crying, after all, and that usually is a sign of distress.  _ Happy tears, now, _ his mind supplies. He wraps Greg up, pulling him in just as tightly as Greg clings.

_ My love. Our home. Our cat. _

Marmalade chirps sleepily, eyeing them in a way that suggests all this emotional outburst is both confusing and disruptive to Her Grace’s repose. Mycroft huffs a laugh in Greg’s hair. “I think she expected nothing less. Officially her humble servants now.”

He runs his hands over Greg’s back, letting him shake for a bit, the outpouring so great that Mycroft can’t help smiling fondly. 

“I love you, Gregory.”

 

*

 

_ Want to marry you. _

The words feel thick in Greg's throat - the need to say them is overwhelming. He wants to breathe them in Mycroft's ear right now, tell him, show him what this means, what it could be, what it's always been, tell him right this second,  _ I love you and it has no end. I need you to know it won't ever, ever end. _

He wants to watch Mycroft signing the registry. He wants to watch those hands he loves form a signature in love and black ink - Greg's, for good; Greg's, forever. He wants to write his name next to Mycroft's, too. 

_ Oh, god. There won't be anything after you. _

_ There couldn't be. _

As Greg nuzzles into Mycroft's neck, lifting a hand to try and staunch his tears, he's still desperate to speak.  _ Darlin', I want you always. I'm not kidding. Don't ever make me go. _

He doesn't know what the next few months will bring - the next few years. 

He just hopes they bring him closer to saying those words. Even if it takes Mycroft years to start thinking about it too, Greg will wait. 

And there'll be rings some day, and a wedding night, and another document saying  _ Holmes-Lestrade. _

It's hard to speak. Greg swallows, trying to loosen the tightness in his throat.

"L-Love you." He nestles into Mycroft's arms, unable to help the tears now flowing with ease.  _ All the pain,  _ he thinks. It matters so little. It still got them here. "I love you so much. I - I wish I could tell you. My everything. J-Jesus, mine.  _ I love you." _

 

*

 

“I love you too, Gregory.”  _ So passionate.  _ Mycroft knows his love is effusive with his emotions in a way that Mycroft has never been capable of himself. It’s almost as though Greg can cry with joy for both of them. 

“Yours. All yours, darling. The house and the cat. Me. I love you.” 

_ I love you and I am going to marry you. _

He can already picture the rings in his head, something tasteful and subtle, good for both of them to wear at work. Maybe purchase a second home in the country. 

_ We’ll see after we try out the lake house.  _ If Greg likes it there, Mycroft is certain he find a property of their own nearby.

His hands slide up and down Greg’s back. Perhaps it ended up for the best that Andy had arrived early. Greeting Gregory’s brother with Greg crying may have sent confusing signals.

“I do have one more item to share with you, my love. Though it may not be quite as exciting as these,” Mycroft adds with a nod to their joint paperwork. 

“Something else for the house. I would like you to decide where to put it.” He nuzzles into Gregory’s hair. “Can you bear another surprise, love?”

 

*

 

"Oh my god," Greg manages, with a rather tearful laugh. "There's more?"

He reaches up again to try drying off his tears, his eyes dark and bright at the same time as he smiles up at his lover.

"Do I need to be sitting down?"

 

*

 

“If you like.” 

Mycroft guides them back to the loveseat, stroking some of the wet from Greg’s cheek with his thumb. He’s actually a bit nervous about this one- he keeps thinking, though he knows it is ridiculous, that Greg might laugh. That somehow he might be… disappointed. 

Joanna has told him in their private sessions that she thinks this is a very nice step, not only because it shows his love for Greg but because it is a start of Mycroft being less… obsessively private, regarding certain matters.

Still, when he lifts up the frame he holds it to his own chest for a moment first, slightly anxious about making his idea more… real.

“I might, ah… have to explain a bit, but….”

He sits down next to Greg and turns the frame out to face them both. It’s one of his maps, not stolen from one of his favorite fantasy realms but one of the ones of his own design- the fantastical version of Antarctica that he considers, every now and then, and the story he might one day like to tell about it. The ink is very carefully applied, the little symbols for mountains and trees and the like done with intricate caution and endless patience.

The castles depicted on it have shifted a bit in this iteration. Most notably, one of them has been renamed  _ Palais de Lestrade,  _ with the greater lands surrounding it labeled  _ Royaume d'argent _ . 

“It’s ‘Silver Kingdom’, really, and- in lieu, perhaps, of an actual castle….”

 

*

 

_ You're building me into your world. _

_ Your precious, private world. _

This is more than a happy shared memory - more than the paperwork which protects it. 

This is Mycroft's soul, and Greg's vision blurs as he realises it. 

He reaches up, pressing his sleeve quietly against the tears. He gazes across the intricate map in perfect quiet happiness, nestling into Mycroft's side with full awareness of the gift he's just been given - every tiny detail is beautiful. He wants to ask a thousand questions. He wants to sit all night in the lounge, letting the candles burn low, hearing all about the Silver Kingdom and the man who made it.

_ God, this is... _

Greg's throat squeezes.  _ Tell him.  _ The thoughts are no good kept to himself; if he's only learned one thing from the last few weeks, it's that.

Nuzzling into Mycroft's neck, still holding the frame carefully in his hands, he murmurs,

"This is incredible. I've never seen anything like this... I mean it. I'm so happy you're sharing it with me. Love, I... I know you're protective of it - I know what it means to you - and I want you to know what it means to me, too."

He reaches up, cupping Mycroft's face in his hand. His brown eyes warm to their very depths, bright and full of love.

"Thank you, darlin'... I want it over the bed - where we're closest. I want to see it every single night."

 

*

 

For a moment, Mycroft is actually speechless.  _ He- likes it, he really does. _ His cheek tilts in, savoring the heat of Greg’s hand. His heart quivers gently, its beats shaking him through his ribs in a patter of  _ love, my love, my love. _

His eyes glitter softly as the well of his love overflows.

“I… thank you, beautiful. I want you to be a part of it.”  _ Part of me. _

God, if only he’d thought to buy a ring as well. Now would be perfect.  _ Marry me. Live with me forever.  _ They have time, of course. All the time they could want. He already knows no one can tear them apart.  _ Never. _ There will be another moment, when he’s ready to ask.

“I love you- over the bed is perfect, darling. I’ve been- there’s a whole history to it, about a knight that I’m thinking of calling Gregoire, if you’re amenable….” He babbles for a bit, blushing when he realizes how long he’s gone on for. No one’s ever been interested before, though, no one looks at him like Gregory looks at him when he talks about all the ideas he has. All the worlds that live in his own mind. 

They end up bringing down wine and the rest of Gregory’s lovely cake, picnicking while they talk of swords and adventures. 

“Come up and help me hang it?” Mycroft asks when it’s grown dark, and they’re cuddled against each other in the glow of candles and the streetlamps. 

_ Our kitchen,  _ he thinks as they put their glasses away and the cake returns to the refrigerator.  _ Our cat, _ when Marmalade follows them and takes her customary place in the hall.  _ Our bed,  _ when they fall into it, for once managing to fuck slow.

_ Ours. Ours. _

_ Forever. _

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darling readers! Thank you so much for sticking with us through a rather angsty ride. We hope that if there are still tears here at the end they are happy ones.
> 
> This book marks the end of what may more or less be considered the "dealing with Karen's shit" portion of the series- in a way, the first three books make up their own trilogy of that arc. But fear not, we have already begun to work on Book 4! 
> 
> Keep an eye out for the next installment and we will see you then!


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